


Fever Dream

by rieunn



Series: Fever Dream [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking and Entering, Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Denial of Feelings, Depression, Earth C (Homestuck), Fluff, Gay Panic, Hurt/Comfort, I also love John tho and I swear he will be ok and decently happy by the end of this, Isolation, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Post-Canon, Solitude, Some Mature References, Somewhat Grotesque Descriptions, Suicidal Thoughts, also they are touch-starved idiots, basically think canon dirk, but if he channeled the self-righteous bs and toxicity into like, caring for people and not being a complete asshole, communicating when it comes to softness and affection and love and shit, dad egbert's not around, his words just don't really match his actions and he's bad at like, i know what this sounds like i swear i love him, its really bad and everyone is worried, john is really really depressed, mentions of character death for that reason, mildly explored separation anxiety, self-neglect, so dirk to the rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24087235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rieunn/pseuds/rieunn
Summary: Please read tags! I will place content warnings in the END notes on certain chapters but there are some sensitive topics explored through this work. Please keep yourselves safe!-You mean to open your mouth to refuse.You really do.“... Fine. Just don’t... don’t expect anything from me. I don’t have anything left to give. Not to you, not to anyone. Not even to myself. I’m... I’m not going be considerate of you.” You watch closely as something in Dirk’s expression shifts and relaxes, and he nods.“That’s more than fine by me,” and you feel yourself exhale. You didn’t know you were holding your breath.
Relationships: John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Series: Fever Dream [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1998664
Comments: 51
Kudos: 249





	1. it's hard to see in the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end chapter notes for content and trigger warnings for this chapter! Again, please keep yourselves safe!  
> This story is modeled after some of the feelings in [Fever Dream by Movements.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h4otvYugrm8)  
> For best experience I suggest at least listening through this song once before or during reading :)

It’s been days.

Days since what, you can’t really singularly pinpoint. Days since you’ve changed clothes... days since you’ve last made a proper meal for yourself. Days since you’ve turned the lights on, days since you’ve last talked with anyone. You just count the little things. The things that might seem off to everyone else but to you have become simple facts of life. How many days, exactly? You don’t know that, either. You stopped keeping track of time a while ago and haven't bothered since. All you know is that you’re still alive, and that’s what matters. You’ve told them time and time again that you’re alive.

You just want a bit of solitude, really. That’s all. Time to search for something within yourself. Anything... that might make it easier to sleep at night without having to go a restless week prior to obtain it. How are you supposed to do that, you’ve tried telling them, when they bother you so much? You wish they would just leave you alone, leave you to your big house in the middle of the woods, surrounded by reminders of your father and your childhood and everything you lost when the game ended.

Or maybe, when it started.

You stretch out slowly, halting, feeling the sheets shift beneath you on your bed. Breathe in. Your fingers catch on cotton fabric. Your heart thuds in your chest, each beat harder than the last and so weakening that you can barely find the energy in yourself to hear or feel anything else. Breathe out. If you tried to stand, would you be able to? A pathetic thought but, nonetheless, you wonder. You wonder and wonder and wonder.

And then, for some unfathomable reason, instead of rolling back onto your side and closing your eyes like usual, you try it, for the first time in days.

As your feet hit the ground and you rise to put what little remains of your full weight onto them, you think, at first, that its fine. And then the lightheadedness hits. It deafens your thoughts and swirls your vision. With the darkness making you blind already you are rendered completely and uselessly disoriented. For a good fifteen seconds you feel as though you can’t breathe and fall straight back onto the bed. A failed attempt that you loathe to fully acknowledge.

 _So, maybe I’m in need of some energy. But this is nothing a good hot pocket won’t fix_ , you muse aloud to yourself. Mostly because its the only thing keeping you sane. Your second attempt at standing is more gratifying, and although you have to steady yourself against the frame of your bed for a few minutes, you’re able to maintain your balance.

 _See?_ You think to your imaginary audience.

 _I’m alright. I’m standing._ And you are.

Your first order of business as a newly reinvigorated man is to figure out how to not stumble all over yourself like a pathetic whelp in the darkness, which is so all encompassing that your eyes can’t even begin to adjust to it. You feel your way around your bed - like an idiot, instead of just turning on the lights - in what you personally know and have tested to be a safe path to the only window in your room. You decide to pull the blackout curtains back a bit to let in enough natural light for you to be able to see again.

Thankfully, it’s nighttime on Earth C, and although the light from the moon is still somewhat blinding, it’s around 10x better than it would have been had you pulled the curtains back during broad daylight (which you _very_ unfortunately have had to experience a few times already). Looking up at the moon sends chills down your spine. Too bright. Unreal. Not yours. It always seems to remind you that the only thing that you have left is this creaking house and the haunting memories that come with it. Your eyes burn and you turn away quickly. You’re fine. You’re okay.

Everything is good.

And you’re clinging to the illusion like a vice.

That's enough of that. Hm. You know, a shower sounds like a great distraction. But the journey is long and grueling, and you will need the appropriate gear to get you through it alive. You misplaced your glasses a few weeks ago and so, despite the light leaking into your room exposing the mess you’ve been living in, you can’t really discern much around you beyond a few feet. Stepping over the oddly shaped blobs of discarded and neglected belongings, you make your way over to your closet and dresser.

You grab the first items of clothing your hands pass over that you vaguely identify as being a tshirt, some sweatpants, and a pair of boxers, and you drag yourself out of your room. The hallway plunges you back into eerie darkness and you shiver a little, speeding your pace up so that you reach the bathroom quicker, the weight of your steps making the floorboards creak. You wonder for a second if maybe your spontaneous desire for a shower is misplaced, but just raising your arm makes you aware that _oh god, oh jesus,_ yes, a shower is _definitely_ needed, _christ._ You strip yourself of the clothes you have been wearing, which are somewhat stiff with dried sweat and smelling a little like roadkill. One wrong whiff of this sends you scrambling for the toilet bowl, but you manage to keep the bile in the back of your throat and not all over the commode with a few deep breaths through your nose.

This is normal for you, you think numbly, hands braced on porcelain. This is and always has been something you can fix on your own. You’ve done it before. A good shower, some food, and some sleep should make things better for a while.

You know this.

It’s just...

You’re just so tired of having to do it. So tired of having to take care of yourself. You often wonder why your body needs it, anyways, since you’re immortal now and literally _won’t_ die. Even if you were to, say, throw yourself from that godawful window in your room, so far above the ground – multiple times in succession after you unfortunately fail the first time – it wouldn’t work. You could even try throwing yourself down at various angles sure to break the neck of any normal person and it wouldn’t work. You would just be horribly mangled and take a few painful days to recover. You can never be free unless your death is just or heroic – and suicide, according to the game rules, is neither.

You beg to differ.

The shower is cold, as usual, and you’re shivering and sucking in air through grated teeth trying to bear it. At one time you took warm ones, like most other people probably do, but you found yourself staying too long because it felt too nice. A substitute for the physical touch your body desperately cries out for. But then you started passing out from the steam and, in disgust with yourself, you decided enough was enough and opted instead for cold showers. Getting yourself in and out in as little time as possible seems to do the trick and stem the longing.

As soon as you’re done, you’re out, and you towel down your body quickly and slip the fresh clothes on for warmth. Your hair has gotten much longer than you’d usually like and is dripping wet. Rivulets of water absorb into the neckline of your shirt and you shudder. Raking the towel once through your hair is all you do to rid yourself of the sensation.

Descending the stairs is a bit of a feat for you. The chill from the shower has followed you out of the bathroom and your body is shaky as a result – plus your legs are weaker than they were last time you did this. You’re leaning most of your weight onto the wall, feeling your way slowly, trying to prevent yourself from performing a misstep that could send you flailing. Once you’re in the kitchen, you alchemize yourself a steaming pepperoni hot pocket of goodness and get down to business.

But it doesn’t fill the hole inside of you. The gnawing.

Instead, it just gives way to more.

When you finish it off, finding it harder and harder to get your jaw to do what it needs to, you stand tensely for all of five seconds before panic strikes in a cold sweat and you find yourself blindly making grabs for the kitchen trash can. You vomit slimy, partially digested and chewed up bits of acidic pepperoni, cheese, and crust into its abyss, saliva and bile dripping from your mouth when the purge ebbs. You wipe it away shakily, smearing it along your chin and forearm.

So much for that plan, you think to yourself in revulsion. The energy your body expends rejecting the food makes your legs give out, and you stumble to a sprawl on the kitchen floor, heaving breath after labored breath with your head turned towards the dark expanse you call your ceiling.

You should probably be crying. You can’t.

You should probably be concerned. You’re just numb.

You should probably get some help. You just continue to sit there for god knows how long.

Outside, the sun begins to rise. You wonder if maybe you were able to keep some of the hot pocket down, because after a while you begin to feel a bit less shaky, a bit steadier. You test rising again, and despite a wave of dizziness, you’re able to stand once more.

That’s enough adventure for today, you decide tiredly, and you weakly trudge your way back up the stairs and to your room. The blurry blob you assume is your bed looks extremely inviting, and you’re about to let yourself plop onto it face first and attempt to smother yourself into passing out when-

_PING!_

You stare in the direction of the sound uncomprehendingly for a good few seconds before it sounds again, and this time you flinch in sync with the tone. Your laptop is dusty and unused, the screen black, but you’re annoyed to notice that it’s plugged in and the power light is on.

You should have chucked it last time this happened.

_When exactly was the last time this happened?_

The same forces that dragged your lifeless carcass out of your bed an hour ago force your steps in the direction of your laptop. The footfalls are small, begrudging, exhausted, wondering who the hell would be awake the second the damn sun has risen. After everything you’ve all been through, sleeping until twelve is the least any of you should be doing for yourselves.

Then again, you, too, are awake. 

You lean a hand against the desk to support yourself, waken your laptop from its feigned slumber with the other, tracing fingers over the trackpad.

With a quick scan over Pesterchum, you begin to understand something; you haven't actually been contacted by anyone until now for quite some time now.

The only handle flashing in front of you is one you have barely seen before, maybe once or twice at most and not out of desire. You wonder what he of all people wants with you, and there’s only one way to find out, so you open up the log.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 5:14 --

TT: I know I’m probably the last person in the world you want to see or hear anything from right now.

TT: Maybe ever.

TT: I don’t know. I can’t know.

TT: At this point, frankly, I've decided I really don't give a fuck anymore about respecting that it's really none of my business if you want to hole yourself off and die.

TT: People are worried about you.

TT: Lots of fucking people.

TT: Like, LITERALLY everyone. And, yes, that includes me.

TT: You don’t come out anymore, you don’t answer texts anymore, you don’t pick up the phone anymore, and you don’t even answer the damn door - and what? You just expect people to NOT ca

You can’t bear to read anymore, so you slam your laptop closed. Your heart wrenches and thuds painfully in your chest and it’s hard to breathe. Though your veins feel as though they are filled with ice, the rage you’re experiencing shakes you through and through with scorching fire.

How dare he.

_How fucking dare he._

Dirk Strider doesn't know the first _damn_ thing about you.

You pick the laptop up, trembling, and you use the full force of what very little energy you have to slam it into the hardwood and stomp on it several times, effectively rendering it smashed, shattered, and useless.

You.

Are doing.

_Fine!_

Haven’t you told them?

_Haven’t you told them?_

Just because you don’t want to talk to your friends for a little while suddenly everyone’s fucking riding your ass.

‘How are you doing, John?’

‘Do you want to talk, buddy?’

‘Are you alright? It’s been a while since we’ve heard from you!’

Can’t they all just _shut the fuck up_ and leave you alone? Huh? Is that too much to _fucking_ ask? It’s great and all if they’re doing perfectly alright after the _pure hell_ that you’ve all endured through this insidious game! That’s fan-fuckin-tastic! But maybe, just fucking maybe, you’re just a _normal fucking human being_ and maybe you need _time_ to get over everything... everything that fucked up your life and everyone else’s along with it!

The thoughts wreck your mind relentlessly, igniting the boiling fire inside of you every time it threatens to simmer down. You can hear your blood rushing in your ears and it only takes another violent flash of hot white rage before you’re slamming punches into the wall next to your desk.

Again.

Again.

_And again._

And it feels so good, because it's _something, dammit._

The next time you look down your knuckles are battered, bruised, and bleeding. You tear at your dripping hair shakily, and before you know it, you’re crying. If it can even be called that. There are no tears to be found despite the burning of your eyes, as you haven’t ingested water in weeks. Just the quick, stuttering, shallow rise and fall of your chest as you try to breathe and sobs rip through your body, interrupting. Hoarse groans tear wildly at your unused throat, desperate to be free of what stifles them. As you cry, you lose your balance and stumble to the floor, body stiff with emotional tension. Your hands come up, trembling, to cover your face and you are once again plunged into darkness.

You wish you were dead.

Unconsciousness comes to claim you, and you let it take you by the hand without a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings: suicidal thoughts, self-neglect, self-inflicted starvation, graphic descriptions of vomit and bodily disrepair, self-isolation, mildly explicit mentions of suicide attempts - please let me know if I have missed anything!
> 
> Kudos and comments (especially comments hehe) are always appreciated! :)


	2. the savior arrives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jesus, Egbert...” the voice is there again and, startled, you jump and your eyes snap open. You look up, still halfway covering your them, still terrified.
> 
> But standing above you is only another human being. The one you least expected to ever see again. 
> 
> Dirk Strider, to be precise. His face is bare, so you see the mixed pity and what you can only assume is revulsion in his eyes when his expression twists.
> 
> “You’re in even worse shape than I thought you were.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end chapter notes for content and trigger warnings for this chapter! Again, please keep yourselves safe!  
> Also I decided I'm gonna post a relevant song with each update because it's fun. This time it's [Heartbeats by José González.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ik_BQYbbZ5U)  
> Enjoy <3

_“ohn... John.”_

_You huff, exasperated, childishly annoyed that your concentration has been broken._

_“What, dad? I’m kinda busy here!” And you are._

_The green ghost pogo ride you’re mounted on swings violently as you yell. You’re trying your best to keep your balance so that you don’t get thrown from its back, like a tiny pebble from the biggest catapult in the world. It's difficult and requires the utmost of your attention. Your gaze snaps up for a brief moment and lands upon the form of your father – he’s grinning and leaning against the side of the house, watching you fondly and with pride, happiness alight in his kind eyes. The eyes you remember. The fedora he normally always wears is nowhere to be seen, and it's almost like a veil has been lifted._

_“Careful, now, son,” he chides mirthfully, and then his tone shifts into something you don’t quite recognize, “I... love you. And I don’t want to see you hurting so badly.”_

_You feel as though time has stopped and his voice sucker punches you in the gut._

_Confused, you absentmindedly let one hand fall from the handles to reach out towards him, out towards the man that sheltered and loved you against all odds, even at the end of his life when you had fucked everything up for everyone. His expression twists into something pained as you move, and then, as though you've jumped off of a building and slammed face first into unforgiving pavement, you abruptly find yourself torn from the stability and balance you had worked so hard to maintain._

_You’re flying from the ghost pogo, falling through the air towards a ground that you can't see but know is there._

_You brace yourself for an impact that doesn’t come._

* * *

A mangled, choked breath lacerates from your throat and you jolt up from where you lie in utter panic. The ground underneath you is far too soft for comfort and it’s so dark, _so_ _fucking dark_ , and you’re trembling and disoriented, sweating and weak all over.

You spend a few minutes just looking around, trying to get your eyes to adjust so that you can see, sucking in air like you’ve never known how to properly breathe a day in your life.

Like someone has just brought you back from the dead.

Heart rate accelerating in your chest, you try to focus on timing your breathing, and it starts to slow and becomes more controlled. You attempt to reassure yourself that you’re not in danger, even with your skin prickling. Your eyes scanning the room wildly, taking stock, observing vigilantly. You’re just on your bed in your room, although you don't remember dragging yourself there. Everything seems to be unchanged, just how you left it; laptop smashed to bits on the ground, crushed and crumbling drywall from your one-sided fight, and the general mess of your belongings littered about the floor and hanging from furniture.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

Everything is normal.

_And then you feel something **shift** behind you, something **touch** you._

And you sure as all fucking hell don’t _wait_ for it to attack you.

As you fight to stand on your bed to get away you try to scream, but your voice is so hoarse that it comes out only in raspy silence. Whatever it is in your room calls out your name in a voice that’s deep and gravelly and just downright fucking _terrifying._ When you feel it _grab your ankle and pull,_ you lose your footing and you fall painfully to the floor with a yelp. _Fuck..._ that hurts.

Your fingers gingerly nurse the back of your head, which definitely hit something hard on your way down.

“Owww... shit,” you croak out, vision obfuscated with white and colored spots. Hardly being able to gather your bearings, you glance upwards and your heart startles and skips a beat. Above you on your bed stands the dark, eerie silhouette of a figure you find yourself completely unable to identify. A full-body shudder runs through you and you find yourself paralyzed with fear, only able to stare up at it, shaking and trying to swallow the knot lodged in your throat.

The figure makes a short grating noise and shifts a bit. In a flash, before you can even so much as flinch, it has disappeared from above you and _fuck, where is it where is it **where the fuck is it?** _You look around wildly, whimpering, but before you can spot it again you find yourself squinting and yelping with surprise. Light has flooded your room for the first time in months. You shield your eyes and face from it, curling up into a ball like some kind of scared, injured animal.

You might as well be one.

“ _Jesus,_ Egbert...” the voice is there again and, startled, you jump and your eyes snap open. You look up, still halfway covering them, still terrified.

But standing above you is only another human being. The one you least expected to ever see again.

Dirk Strider, to be precise. His face is bare, for some odd reason, so you can actually see the mixed pity and what you can only assume is revulsion in his eyes when his expression twists.

“You’re in worse shape than I thought you were.”

He looks at you as though he’s expecting some sort of response, but all you can do is stare at him.

Stare at him and wonder if he’s even real.

He returns it in kind. For a good few minutes, all you can hear is your own labored breathing, the pace of your heartbeat. Somewhere during this time, you realize that your hands – which were much worse for wear the last time you checked – have been treated and bandaged. You sustained other wounds as well, apparently, and those have been similarly taken care of. The smeared vomit on your arm and along your chin is gone, too. The only person who could have done it stands before you silently, appearing almost to be brooding. So, hesitantly, you open your mouth to thank him, to speak. To actually speak to... another person. To the first human being you’ve encountered in years. 

“H... How did you... get in?”

Awkward, somewhat aggressive and accusatory, and not _at all_ what you meant to say, the words tumble out sounding as though you’re a child still learning how to speak. Your face feels hot with humiliation. Dirk doesn’t respond to this at first, and then his posture relaxes somewhat. He rubs the back of his neck and jerks his head to the side in a brusque gesture, which you follow slowly, not trusting your eyes to leave him for long. Finally looking, really looking, you see something you missed before in your survey of your room; your window has been completely shattered, and what glass remains juts out at sharp, dangerous looking angles, some bloodied.

You stare open-mouthed and swallow thickly, somewhat bewildered.

_What the fuck._

“... You didn’t answer when I knocked.” Shock and surprise quickly transforms into annoyance, which courses through you and gives way in your next response.

“... Is there something _wrong_ with you? Maybe you should have just, I dunno... fucking left me alone? Like a normal person?? Instead of _fucking breaking in???_ ” Dirk doesn’t miss a beat.

“Nah. Normal isn’t my style, bro. I warned you, anyways,” he retorts calmly, and you glare up at him, eye twitching.

“What?” He dismisses the hostile look in your eyes and crosses his arms, staring you down with equal intensity.

“I warned you on Pesterchum that if I didn’t get a response by the third knock that I would fuckin’ break in, John. You didn’t respond, so I kept my word.”

In a fit of blind anger, you begin to rise, yelling, “You fucking dick! I didn’t even see your-” but you have sorely underestimated your fragile condition. As soon as you begin to stand your vision begins to go hazy and dark and your knees give out underneath you.

Before you can stop him, he’s there.

No warning.

_Surrounding you._

You are _very_ suddenly confronted with the realization that your touch deprivation does not give a _single_ fuck about the fact that you have spoken to this particular Strider _maybe_ a very small handful of times in your whole life; _he is a person,_ it cries _._ A _real_ one, right in front of you, with a body and the ability to _touch_ you, _and he’s doing it,_ it cries. He’s warm, _so fucking warm,_ and _it’s too much-_

You yelp and try to shove him away from you as though he is fire and you are a match.

“Get _away_ from me, asshole, don’t touch me! I _said,_ DON’T _FUCKING_ TOUCH ME!!!”

You scream and thrash as violently as you physically can, even throwing in a good few punches here and there, but it’s all in vain. Instead of deterring him, your anger and violence seems to somehow spur him on further. He pulls you deeper into his warmth, effortlessly - as though you are tiny, helpless. He pushes callous fingers through your damp hair dangerously close to your scalp, traces more of them along your back and, _fuck,_ you _shudder._

“I- s-stop, please, Dirk, _please, I’m begging you,_ stop, I can’t-” you whimper weakly, sensitive and already losing resistance, and he covers your mouth lightly to stifle the feeble protests with one of his hands.

“Shut up,” he murmurs, no real venom behind the words, the look in his eyes intense and burning through you. Your breath hitches in your chest, and with a small, hoarse noise of self-disgusted defeat, you go limp in his arms and hide your face in the hardness of his shoulder with shame, as though you’re a weak, pathetic, child.

Maybe you are.

The sobs wrack through you once more and you shake like a leaf against him. Mentally, you continue to beg him for space, for him to leave you alone. You ask him why he’s here; you tell him it’s no use, you tell him that it doesn’t matter. That _you_ don’t matter. You scream at him that you’ve tried to say goodbye so many times before. There were so many shitty failed attempts. Attempts at death, attempts at reaching out. You’re holding on by the thinnest thread in the world with all of your weight, clinging to what is left of yourself only because you’re stuck with it. You scream that you’re tired.

That you’ve had enough.

That you want a way out.

Because you don’t deserve to live.

It’s all your fault. _It’s all your fucking fault._

“... It isn’t.”

The words startle you, partially because they’ve been spoken at all and partially because you can feel them rumble in his chest. It dawns on you that you’ve been saying it all aloud this whole time and you burn with utter mortification.

“... It is,” you respond, after a few tense, silent seconds, “you know it is. If... if I had never picked up that stupid copy of sburb-”

You feel fingers press into and under your chin and pull your head up firmly. Dirk’s smoldering eyes bore into yours and he chases your gaze when it nervously flits away.

“I told you to _shut up,_ not tell me what you _think_ I know. Only _I_ know what I know, Egbert. And I don’t ever remember being under the impression that any of the consequences of this shitty game have been because of you and only you. It has _never_ been _your_ fault, John. Not to me, and definitely not to anyone else but you.”

You try to come back, to tell him he's wrong, to explain it to him, but instead when you open your mouth you find you have nothing to say. The words you're desperate for don't come.

Dirk doesn’t ask for a response, nor does he wait for one, although he does search your eyes for a second or two longer before sliding his fingers up the side of your face and back into your hair with a gentleness that doesn’t match his tone. He tugs your head forward until it bumps back to where it was, snug against his shoulder. Something in you loosens. You only vaguely register Dirk picking you up, flicking the lights back off again and moving to the bed. You _do_ notice that it's more comfortable. He tucks you into his arms again and continues the soothing caresses.

The two of you stay like this for a long time.

Dirk says nothing further, preferring to speak through actions, and the only sounds you emit are choked out sobs when the emotions well up inside of you again. But eventually, your heart rate slows. Eventually, your breathing evens out. Eventually, it all abates. The stiffness from being touched by someone, in general – let alone someone you are not at all familiar with the presence of – gradually leaves you.

He is a stranger to you, yes. And it’s weird to you that he’s holding you and that you don’t completely hate it. But right now... right now, he is the only person in this world aside from your late father who has seen you in such a state and - from the way he has you wrapped up - it doesn’t seem like he’s leaving any time soon.

It’s soothingly warm, and despite your usual insomnia you feel the impending fade of sleep creeping up on you. You still have something to say, though, and you struggle to keep your eyes open. Your attempt to sit up to be able to communicate effectively is met with a tightening of arms around you, so you give up trying in favor of verbalizing what you feel you need to say.

“... Dirk.”

“... Mhm?” he grunts in acknowledgement, pulling away from you only slightly to look you in the eyes. You avoid meeting his gaze.

“I... just wanted to say, um... thanks.”

“... For what?” he asks, as though he genuinely doesn’t understand. You’re embarrassed and frustrated and tired and you _really_ don’t want to have to list specifics, so you fumble through an attempt to make it brief.

“For um. For the, uh... the bandages. And the other stuff. Y’know. The stuff you did and... said.”

“For breaking in, too?” You meet his stare blankly at first and then incredulously at the amusement you see in his eyes, the smirk pulling subtly at the corner of his mouth. The expression on his face reminds you, oddly, of when you used to joke around with Dave, before things went to shit, but it’s... somehow _different._ You let out a huff of laughter - but you haven’t done it in so long that it doesn’t sound right to your own ears.

“No way, dude, you are _definitely_ paying for that.”

There's a pause, and something shifts in the air between the two of you.

“... Nah. I’ll just help you fix it,” the words are spoken lightly, but it somehow sounds like he’s saying something more, something... deeper. You go silent for a few seconds, just staring at him. He stares back. Your rebury your face in his chest which has become oddly comfortable to you over the past hour.

“... Alright.”

You only have a vague idea of what you’re _really_ agreeing to when you, for the first time in years, drift off effortlessly to sleep.

* * *

When you find yourself groggily coming back into awareness, eyes still closed as you recall what happened before you drifted off, you don’t know _what_ exactly it is that you’re expecting. If anything at all.

Part of you hopes he’s still with you.

Part of you hopes he isn’t.

Part of you wonders if he was ever actually there at all and you didn’t just finally go insane.

Only one way to find out.

You’re greeted with warm afternoon light when you blink awake and you squint, eyes sensitive to it. You never did close the curtains to smother the coming sunlight after you opened them a little, early this morning when it was still mostly dark outside. Noticing this leads you to notice other things.

Like the arm draped over your side, the fingers ever so lightly brushing against the skin of your abdomen underneath your shirt.

 _Still here_.

The natural light makes everything look so much different. The damage done to your room is much more visible. The mess easier to see. You observe, absentmindedly, how much darker Dirk’s skin is than yours. Sun kissed and freckled against sickly and pale. What a contrast, if not for the discolored marks of survival.

You shift around, hoping in vain that it doesn’t wake him. But when you finally find yourself face to face with him, greeted by even more freckles and extremely messy blonde, his sunset eyes are open.

Much to your chagrin.

It must show on your face because the man in question smirks.

“Morning, beautiful,” he grates out, voice deeper than normal and sleep muddled.

You ignore the things it does to your gut.

_What a bastard._

You squint at him in a disapproving glare before brushing his arm off of you and sitting up. To your dismay, he doesn’t stop talking.

“Aw, you’re just gonna ignore me? So _cold._.. and after the beautiful, heartfelt, moment we shared together just hours ago, too...” Your face heats up at the provocation, despite knowing better, and you have a mini panic attack at the implications of your body’s response to that before turning back to glare at him with more intensity.

“Yes, I am. Shut up,” you mumble out, and you attempt to scoot over to the edge of the bed and abscond from the awkwardness. Before you can make it too far you feel a hand grip your arm and pull back abruptly. It unbalances you and you fall back onto the bed with a surprised yelp. The next time you blink, wide-eyed, Dirk is hovering above you, and your heart skips a beat.

Definitely out of the sheer nervousness and fear it evokes in you.

No other reason.

“Not so fast, Egbert. We have things to discuss. Also, not sure if you’ve noticed, but you’re about as weak and malnourished as a starving newborn kitten right now, and I very much doubt you’ll be able to stand for too long without my help,” his tone leaves no room for negotiation, and you know that, sadly, he’s right; you’re not strong enough to fend him off. So, you just swallow anxiously, pout, and stay put like you’re told.

“Good boy,” you blink and flush at this, but if Dirk notices, he pays you no mind, “So, first thing’s first; I’ll be staying here with you for a while.”

Wait, wait.

_Hold up._

What?

Exasperated, you sputter, “S-Staying? _Here?_ Oh, oh no, no way, you absolutely _can no-”_ a finger presses to your lips and shushes you, startling you, and you squint to glare at him.

“No offense, John, but you’ve _fully_ demonstrated to me and therefore to basically everyone else who cares about you that you can’t be trusted to take care of yourself.” Anger flares up inside of you.

“You! That’s-!” you start indignantly, but one look from Dirk shuts you up.

“... If I leave you here like this today, nothing will change. You’ll continue to neglect yourself, run yourself straight into the ground like you’ve done time and time before. This needs to stop, and I’m the most qualified person to make it happen.” Bitter, you snort.

“That’s pretty arrogant, don’t you think, you bastard? Overconfidence won’t get you anywhere,” you sneer, but your seething words don’t faze him and he continues to stare you down.

“Sure, it will. Because I’m the least likely out of all of us to give in to any dismissal, pleading, or coercion you might try to spring on me. Plus, I’ll do _literally_ whatever it takes to fix you.” You squint suspiciously at him, unsettled, anxiety rising within you.

“You... you can’t fix me. No one can. And I don’t deserve to be fixed.”

“Maybe.”

“...”

“And despite all of that, I’m going to do it, anyways.”

His words stun you into confusion. Dirk has always had a habit of saying things you find yourself unable to respond to. That’s probably why the two of you were never close, even when there were chances for you to be. You feel something inside of you shift, something change. You stare into his eyes, unflinching, unblinking, trying to see into him, through him. Come up empty handed. A few moments pass like this before you open your mouth, slowly, carefully choosing words.

“You’re... not my psychiatrist. If you think you’re just gonna sit me down and get me to... _talk_ about my shit and psychoanalyze me until it’s all better...” you trail off in warning. He shakes his head.

“Nah. That’s more Rose’s thing, as I’m sure you know. And anyways, I don’t expect you to talk to me. Hell, for all I care we could go the whole time not saying a damn word to each other – maybe that’d even be the most effective option. I don’t know. But all you have to do is let me be here, John. Just let me take care of you,” Dirk mutters softly, and for a moment, you feel like you can’t breathe.

He takes your silence as an opportunity to continue, “Besides, you said enough this morning,” and one look at your expression has him holding his hand up, “Listen; I’m not gonna pretend I didn’t hear it, but I understand what I need to and I won’t bring it up again, unless you do.”

Silence falls once more between the two of you. You attempt to search his eyes one more time. Despite all of his big talk and the authoritative tone, Dirk is looking at you as though he’s asking for permission.

And you mean to open your mouth to refuse.

You really do.

“... Fine. Just don’t... don’t expect anything from me. I don’t have anything left to give. Not to you, not to anyone. Not even to myself. I’m... I’m not going to be considerate of you,” as you speak you watch closely as something in Dirk’s expression shifts and relaxes, and he nods.

“That’s more than fine by me.” You feel yourself exhale. You didn’t even know you were holding your breath.

“Now that that’s taken care of, let’s get down to business,” Dirk says, pushing himself off of you and your bed, clapping and rubbing his hands together.

You stare at him questioningly before he turns back to you, grin on his face.

Something you’ve never even seen the more expressive Strider do in front of you.

And then he’s hoisting you up and over his shoulder and you shout and curse.

“AH! Not cool! Fuck, Dirk! _Put me down_ -” you hiss, clutching the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt for dear life.

“Nah, you totally just consented to this,” his voice is full of amusement and it makes you want to punch him on his stupid face. Instead you land a few along his back, where you can reach.

“I did _not,_ asshole! Put me doowwn!”

“Sorry, what was that? Couldn’t hear you over the sound of me being right. You’ll thank me later, anyways,” and as he says this, he carries you downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings: mild but warranted panic/paranoia, depression and mentions of suicide/attempted suicide, self-blame, mentions of touch-starvation - Please let me know if I have missed anything! 
> 
> Also please please _please_ go and give this [gorgeous piece of fanart by ectobaby](https://www.instagram.com/p/CBPLIRzAH-K/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet) on instagram some love!!! it's so good and i'm forever in awe over it. If you ever decide to make fanart for this please!!! for the love of god send it to me or @ me because i will cry tears of joy all over it!!!!


	3. the deepest parts of desire are not easily hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “... I’m not a fuckin’ sap. You’re gonna wish you never said that,” he mutters ominously, and you simper.
> 
> “Oh, really?”
> 
> “Mhm.”
> 
> You see the upward twitch of his mouth before you register that his hands have moved, and the lack of observation marks the beginning of your slow, painful demise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end chapter notes for content and trigger warnings for this chapter! Again, please keep yourselves safe!  
> This chapter's chosen theme song is [Growing on You by The Story So Far.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sI-O7LIhZbE)  
> I hope you guys enjoy the update! I think there will only be two more chapters unless more is requested! Thank you to everyone who has been following the story so far! :)

Two weeks have passed since Dirk began staying with you and you still haven’t really gotten used to his presence, if that’s something that can actually be done. You’re not sure that it is, at least not by a normal person anyways, so you don’t fault yourself too much for it.

True to his word, Dirk has not even once brought up your depression or suicidal thoughts and tendencies. Neither have you. The closest it has come to that has been during the couple of times you’ve had panic attacks, triggered by nightmares or the usual bout of overwhelming self-hatred. But all he does is hold you, a wordlessly present fortress until you calm down.

He’s with you every second he possibly can be, forcing you into a routine of self-care that consists of little effort on your part. He wakes you at around 9 AM every morning, makes you breakfast, and watches you with an unending, burning intensity until you eat it, just out of utter discomfort. He doesn’t stop until you’ve finished it all, either, and lunch and dinner are carried out similarly. In between these times, he forces you to spend time with him, although maybe ‘forces’ isn’t exactly accurate. You’ve watched enough anime to officially be considered a weeb, but in return Dirk has had to sit through loads of your old awful, shitty movies. Aside from that, sometimes you pass the time competitively playing video games with each other. He’s taken you outside to train lightly with him or take a walk a few times now – to build up some strength, he says – but your body hasn’t taken to it well. Only once, so far, has he attempted to spar with you, but when he found out that you didn’t want to use your god tier powers and haven't used them since the game ended, he changed his mind and wouldn't tell you why.

He takes care of basically everything. He’s helped you patch your window up like he said he would, repaired the hole you barely managed to smash into the wall, put your laptop back together, cleaned up after you (and still continues to do so). He even found and repaired your glasses for you. It should be more awkward than it is, but instead it just feels unnaturally comfortable. You have it good, honestly.

Things are better.

Different, but better.

You can’t deny it.

The memories never leave you; the anxiety and depression are always there. They never relent. But Dirk keeps you grounded and occupied and tries his damned hardest to get you healthy. You’ve started filling out again and, although you can still see your ribs pulling against your sunken skin and you still look haggard as fuck, you appear and feel less like you’re dead, which is a start.

_Things are better._

There’s just... one thing that’s really bothering you.

And you have no idea how to even begin to approach the subject with him. Or if you even want to.

You see, Dirk’s close care and watchfulness doesn’t just stop at nutrition, exercise, and making sure you have hobbies. Sometimes in between meals instead of just palling around, he pulls you into his lap. Or his arms. And... _snuggles you_ , speaking to you about nonsense, like he’s not doing something strange. Which, okay, fair. Not the weirdest thing to happen to you, you guess. You’ve hugged Dave a few times before, so it’s fine if you think of it similarly to that.

But... he sleeps with you in your bed at night, too. That wouldn’t exactly be a problem, either, especially since you haven’t gone a day _not_ waking up well-rested yet since he started doing it but...

It’s just that he does it while _embracing_ you.

_Any way he can._

Sometimes it’s spooning, a leg draped over yours. Other times he lies on his back and keeps you held firmly in place against his chest.

He doesn’t even _say_ anything.

Just pulls you into bed at 12 AM. Wraps you up like it's normal.

You never know how to - or if you even _should -_ respond. Between shoving him away and drawing a line or returning his gestures in kind, you can't decide. You can’t tell what fits what you want more closely, because part of you is intensely mortified by it and another part of you - the touch-starved one, you assume - wants desperately to be close to him. The conflict in emotions clouds your judgment. So, instead, you just say fuck it and do neither, just... let it happen. And you've been okay like that. Mostly.

The Problem™ doesn’t just end there, though.

No, not only does the man sleep with you, but he fucking _watches_ you get dressed and undressed and stays in the fucking bathroom, sitting on the countertop, while you take your daily mandated shower. Like you’re some kind of kid.

He never... _touches_ you. He lets you wash your body and dry it off on your own when you get out, and he hasn’t crossed any serious lines, so... It's not that bad? You guess? It’s just... well, it’s still awkward and embarrassing as hell, _obviously_. It bewilders you and makes you feel weird, and you’ve tried politely to get him to stop dozens of times now, but he just doesn’t respond. Glares at you like you’re being an idiot until you give up trying and you just jump in and out as quickly as you possibly can.

It’d be a hell of a lot easier to tell him to fuck off if he didn’t stare you down in pretty much the same exact way he does when he wants you to eat – that is to say, it’s not exactly like he’s checking you out or anything. Not that there’s much to see right now.

You’re fairly certain it’s his way of pressuring you into taking care of yourself properly, as if he’s saying he’s watching and won’t let you get away with pulling any fast ones. It’s just... _really_ unnerving. For multiple reasons. Firstly, no one besides you and your late father has ever come close to seeing your body in all of its shitty glory, so the anxiety and self-consciousness it triggers is almost enough to make you want to die. You’ve thought about fleeing many times, if only just to save yourself from the humiliation, knowing you’re probably the least pleasing person to look at on the whole planet. Secondly, like you’ve said, it makes you feel... odd. You can never meet his stare with your own, but you can _feel_ the intensity of it practically _burn_ through you, and... well. Let’s just say you’ve had to will away strange thoughts and reactions by thinking of your dead Nana and Lord English’s very ugly, very punchable mug _quite a few_ times now, much to your dismay.

Maybe... he likes you? You've given it some thought, and it could be possible, you guess, since he's... uh, _you know._ Then again, like you've said, you're really not much to look at right now, so you don't know why he would be attracted to you. But... the thought doesn't unnerve you as much it probably should. The thought of Dirk being attracted to you. And _that's_ what's really getting to you. The core of The Problem™. Your reactions to him are not exactly the purest and most friendly at the source and although you don't understand them and don't know how to even begin how to process them, it's really starting to concern you.

It’s confusing and weird and you just _know_ it can’t be normal. How does it even make sense? You’re _not_ gay. You’ve _never_ _been_ gay. Before now, you were 100% certain about that. You’d like to attribute it to not having come into contact with anyone in too long of a time and just being overly sensitive. Especially since Dirk’s been pretty heavy with the physical contact. For some reason. That you don't want to think about right now. Anyways, that _must_ be it. After all, you don’t really have anything to compare the experience with. You’re certain if Dirk were anyone else it would be exactly the same. Probably.

And, well... even if – hypothetically speaking, of course – you happened to be gay or bi or whatever... isn’t Dirk involved with Jake, still, anyways? Granted, it’s been a few years since you’ve last heard the local gossip – but last time you did, you were under the impression that things were still going on between them. Even if not... officially. If he is, for some unfathomable reason, attracted to you, and they aren't still together, is it because you look similar to Jake? The shared genes aren't hard to notice by a long shot, and you know that. So does he. Everyone knows that. 

With a deep sigh, you try to clear your mind of this frustrating train of thought.

It doesn’t matter, anyways, you think. Doesn’t pertain to you, because you’re not like _that._

Definitely.

“Don’t think too hard, John – you’ll give yourself a stroke,” tightening your grip on the controller you hold in your hands, you spare a second to look at the source of your Problem™ with a glare. You’re both relaxing on the couch in the living room, and he has your legs propped up in his lap where he sits, your back resting up against the arm of the couch. Of course, he returns your angry expression with a smirk.

Jerk.

“You’re the one who’ll be having a stroke when I totally decimate you this round, Dirk. Not to mention for like the fifth time now! Consider yourself warned,” you seethe, and he chuckles.

“Uh huh, go ahead and take pride in the fact that Mario Kart is _literally_ the only game you can beat me in – and only because I can’t bear to take it seriously enough to want to win.”

“Rude. You’re an ass, you know?”

“Sure, but you tolerate me, so that’s on you."

You can’t disagree. Comfortable silence settles between the two of you as you continue to play without much conviction.

When you win, as though nothing even needs to be said, Dirk grabs the TV remote and shuts it off. You push your glasses up your nose and lean your head back on the armrest so that you’re looking at everything upside down. You can feel him staring at you even if you can no longer see him. His hand rests gingerly on your knee and the contact tingles, even through your jeans. Having spent the last two weeks having to get fluent in Dirk Strider pretty quickly, you understand that he’s waiting for you to speak. Practically demanding it.

“... Don’t you have other places you need to be?” you finally pipe up, your voice quiet and tentative. It’s silent for a second longer, and then you hear a sigh.

“That, again? I keep telling you, Egbert; I don’t need to be anywhere more than I need to be here with you right now. Stop worrying about it.”

You frown, “... But,” and, although you hear him huff frustratedly, you continue, “does anyone even know you’re here? Don’t they... miss you? Like, um, Jake... and Jane and Roxy and everyone else?”

“John. I can look after myself, and our friends all know that. And even if they miss me, they understand the importance of me being here, so it doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t make me leave, anyhow. What’s this about?”

You don’t reply.

You don’t want to talk about it.

It’d require you to divulge more information than you’d be comfortable with sharing, and who wants to do that?

Not you, that’s who.

“... Hey. Look at me.”

You don’t want to.

But his fingers snake around the back of your head and pull you up, and you have no choice. The look in his eyes and the set of his jaw doesn’t allow for negotiation. Insistent.

_“What’s this about?”_

You look away from him, heart stuttering.

“I-I don’t really want to get into it... I just...” you sigh, “I’m doing better now, y’know? I can... I can probably start going out and visiting people again soon. And you don’t have to stay here and... _babysit_ me, anymore. You can... go back,” you glance up to see Dirk glaring at you, gaze piercing and predatory, but with a nervous swallow you try to continue, “t-to the people... you actually love and care ab-”

He moves quickly.

And his lips are on yours.

It’s too much, too suddenly – you have no time whatsoever to prepare or react. It’s rough and his breath is hot and for a moment you’re lost in it, mind woozy. Your teeth clash and Dirk bites down rather harshly on your lower lip and you’re back, abruptly shoving yourself away from him, heart pounding, face burning, hand pressed against your assaulted lips.

What... was that?

_What was that?_

He... He just...

God, and your reaction!

What the fuck, John?

Weren’t you literally _just_ thinking about _not_ being gay? _Christ..._

Your eyes slowly crawl back up to meet Dirk’s, bewildered, confused, embarrassed.

You can’t decipher the expression on his face. Tentatively, as though sneaking up on an easily frightened animal, he approaches you once more, inching ever so slowly closer. Fingers cautiously and hesitantly brush along your cheek leaving your skin tingling, and this is the first time you’ve ever seen him exhibit restraint.

“... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, uh,” he shakes his head at himself, looking down and away with a grimace, “But... you’ve gotta stop talking like that. I’m... not going to just fuckin’ leave you here alone, John. And, surely... you’ve _gotta_ know by now that you yourself fall under the category of ‘people I actually love and care about.’”

You flinch at this and avoid his intense gaze as he continues, “Look, I don’t care if you hate me now. That’s fine. I just overstepped my bounds, and I get that. But I’m still not going to abandon you here in this gloomy ass house to rot by yourself like you’ve been trying to for the last few years. Not when we’ve come this far, already. Not when we’re so close. I... _Jesus,_ John, can’t you fuckin’ see what I’m trying to do here? What I’m trying to get you to open your eyes to?” His voice sounds frustrated and pained and the look on his face is one you have never seen before. There’s something tortured in it, something you don’t understand, and your head swims just trying to decipher it.

“I... I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m... I’m sorry, fuck, shit-” your eyes burning with tears that you don’t understand the emotional source of, you bury your face in your hands and shake.

Your chest hurts.

This isn’t how you imagined this conversation going.

Not that you really gave it much thought before you stupidly opened your mouth.

“... Shit, John. Don’t cry. I didn’t mean to... God, fuck-” you’re gathered up into his lap hurriedly and you feel hands that have become familiar along your arms and back and in your hair. Trying to soothe, trying to comfort. You mumble that you’re sorry again and again.

“Sh, stop apologizing. It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You shake your head.

“No - I’m sorry that you have to see me like this, that you had to find me the way you did – I’m sorry for all of it. Dirk, I wish... I wish I were stronger, like you and everyone else, and not so disgusting and cowardly and pathetic. I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know how to fix it. I’m sorr-”

“One more apology and I’ll kiss you again, god fucking damn it all,” Dirk hisses, tightening his grip on you, and you feel yourself stiffen and go warm.

You had _almost_ been able to let it slip your mind. Almost. But really, how could you? Your lip still stings from where he bit down.

The threat works like a charm to silence you, and the two of you stay that way for a little while longer.

“... You’re not disgusting, or a coward, or pathetic. I don’t really think _any_ of us are. The game was hell, you know? And we got through it. Doesn’t that just make us all hella badass survivors, living on this shitty knockoff Earth that’s supposed to be some kind of asswipe reward for living through its genocidal plot?” You blink a few times and try to consider this for a moment but can’t really get yourself to wrap your mind around it. It just makes things seem bleaker, somehow.

When did you become such a pessimist? 

After a moment of silence on your behalf, Dirk sighs and continues. He's scratching lightly along your back, which makes your eyes flutter closed as you listen.

“... I know, okay? Despite surviving, you’d rather give up. Hell, when we first got here, so did I. Tried hard at it – almost made it fuckin’ happen. But, John, if we die now, we make everyone else’s sacrifices look like garbage piled up on the side of a very narrow street. If we die now, we’re giving in to the game. Learning how to live with the memories... learning how to make it through living on this bitch of an Earth C one godawful, excruciatingly painful day at a time. Making the most of it. _That’s_ where it’s at. That’s what I’m trying to show you, dude.”

You think back to what’s happened over the past two weeks. Spending time distracting yourself with movies and games, trying to take pleasure in the small activities that seem mundane and tedious, just being in his company, being held by him and holding him back.

You realize he’s right. And you finally see it.

 _Those_ are the things that have been making the numbness more bearable.

Those are the things that have been making things better.

Like you’ve said, it never goes away. And you never forget, like you wanted to.

But he’s with you.

_He’s with you._

And, maybe, life is at its simplest just trying your best to move on from one day to the next, against all odds.

Your father probably would have said some dumb shit like that.

The thought makes you snort and laugh, _really_ laugh, for some reason you don’t understand. Maybe it’s just the memories that come flooding back. The good ones instead of the bad ones, for once. When Dirk pulls away from you to look at you with an expression that’s clearly asking you why the fuck you’re mocking his sincere attempt at comforting you, you laugh harder.

Instead of bringing your father up, you just grin and manage to get out, “Sorry, I just had no idea you were such a sappy philosopher, haha!” the look in your eyes nothing short of amused. Dirk squints at you.

“... I’m not a fuckin’ sap. You’re gonna wish you never said that,” he mutters ominously, and you simper.

“Oh, really?”

“Mhm.”

You see the upward twitch of his mouth before you register that his hands have moved, and the lack of observation marks the beginning of your slow, painful demise.

“Ahhh! _N-No,_ wait! Sto-op,” you throw your head back and gasp for air, “F-Fuck, Dirk, you - heh, hehe, hahaha! DAMMIT, SHIT-”

The attack has begun; your sides, neck, and under your arms are ravaged from any and all angles – anywhere that’s sensitive that he can get his hands, he tickles. The torture is so consistent, and Dirk is so guarded, that you’re rendered literally unable to retaliate. He doesn’t stop until you’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe and you’re actually beginning to cry a little.

When you finally tap out, Dirk is holding your body limp in his arms, looking far too triumphant at his victory for you to be angry with him. Still trying to catch your breath, you weakly reach up and poke his cheek.

“Hah... you are an asshole... ha... and you play unfair... huff... you jerk...” he just grins at you, a look in his eyes that makes you feel funny, and lets his head fall softly onto your shoulder.

“You’re the only one here who plays unfair, and you know it,” his voice is quiet, muffled, and the implications of his words lodge themselves right into your gut where butterflies start to make you feel like you’re going crazy.

He doesn’t clarify what he means, and you don’t dare ask him to. Doubt still weighing heavily on feelings you’re not sure you’re ready to explore. Instead, tension dissipated for now, the two of you exist like this with each other until the sun begins to set. Then, much like the first time, Dirk hoists you up to carry you into the kitchen.

The usual smirk lines his mouth, evening eyes matching the light from outside.

Your heart stutters in your chest and you wonder, not for the first time, what it means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings: mild internalized homophobia, slight sexual implications, very brief mentions of attempted suicide (not graphic or explicit) - please let me know if I’ve missed anything!


	4. reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he didn’t come back... what would you do?
> 
> How the fuck would you survive?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end chapter notes for content and trigger warnings for this chapter! Again, please keep yourselves safe!  
> I'm sorry this update is late! Also, there is going to be a chapter 5, now, as well as a nsfw continuation work that I will attach to this one if anyone is interested. I'm sorry for this one, guys... Read safely!  
> Here’s the song for this chapter [What Happened to Us by Harbour.](https://youtu.be/drRYWhe7M6c)

Your left leg bounces nervously. Up, down, up down. You’re wringing your hands together so hard it almost hurts, but you can’t help it. It’s the only way you’re able to keep the anxiety at bay. You force yourself to breathe in and out and relax, but it’s difficult.

After all, today is the day.

A hand enters your vision, waving, and you flinch, looking up from your daze with a startled expression. He looks good: leather jacket over orange, dark jeans, sneakers. You didn’t even hear him come downstairs, and you shake off your admiration and frown as though he’ll understand what your expression means.

And he does.

A sheepish smile pulls at his mouth.

“Sorry, you know it’s a habit. Are you ready?” Dirk asks. And you contemplate it.

Are you?

You have no idea. You’re not sure that will really change until you’re already there and it’s too late to turn back.

So, you nod tentatively, sighing.

“As ready as I can be, I guess,” you mutter, and stand. Dirk ruffles your hair, and when you look up and see his unguarded smile, warmth twinges and rises inside of you.

“It’ll be fine, dude. You know they’ll be happy to see you,” but at this you frown, rubbing the back of your neck, hair still damp from your shower even though you let Dirk dry it afterwards. It sends a chill down your spine.

“You say that, but... I still can’t help but feel like I’m gonna get punched, or something bad is going to happen.” He laughs, a deep rumble that you still can’t get used to.

“No way. I’d be catchin’ mad hands if anyone tried anything,” the words don’t help the creeping flush you feel coming on. Nor does the arm he slings around your shoulder when he says, “anyways, enough of that; let’s go.”

You take a deep breath to calm yourself, mostly succeed at doing so, and walk with him out to the driveway. Tilting your head, you look up at the sky. The afternoon sun is bright and harsh on your eyes. You shield them with your hand and, after a second, you feel Dirk’s squeeze your shoulder. You turn to look at him and see that he’s holding his shades out to you.

You’re somewhat surprised to see them at all.

All this time you assumed maybe he didn’t have them anymore – that he broke them or lost them or something – not that he just wasn’t wearing them because... he didn’t want to, you guess. You don’t know. You settled with your initial assumptions about their whereabouts and didn’t investigate further, and you feel like it might be kind of awkward to talk about now. He raises eyebrows at you when you don’t make a move for them and you snap out of your dazed thoughts to take them.

“Oh, uh, thanks,” you mutter, “but... won’t you need them? You’re the one driving,” you venture, but Dirk just shakes his head.

“Sun’ll be behind us when we get going, so I’m good.”

This isn’t the first time he’s ever prompted you to wear something of his over the past three months or so, but somehow it feels like it is. There’s something unspoken and intimate about the gesture that makes you fumble with them for a bit longer before replacing your glasses with them. You hear a snort and you squint in his direction, unable to see his face clearly enough to decipher his expression.

“What?” you ask, tone already defensive.

“Nothing, just... you look so fuckin' goofy.” Indignant, face flushed with embarrassment, you ball up a fist and punch his arm.

“Oh yeah? Well you’re one to talk! As if you’re not the biggest goof out of the both of us for having worn them all the time as a kid!” you stick your tongue out at him as you say this, expecting to get the usual smirk or decidedly shitty retort from him, but Dirk looks away almost expressionless, up to the sky. He’s rubbing where you hit him absentmindedly, though you know by now your punches don’t pack enough force to hurt him, even when you’re trying to.

“... Can’t argue with that,” he mutters. Something in you aches, looking at his somber profile. Trying to lighten things up and change the subject, you lightly start to push him towards the side of the house.

“That’s because I’m right! Now, stop trying to make fun of me, you huge doofus! Go grab the bike that you think is cool but is actually really just lame because, again, you are a doofus, and since it's yours that makes it dumb,” you ramble, and practically sigh with relief when you see him turn his head to crack a grin at you.

“Egbert, you say the stupidest sounding shit sometimes,” you open your mouth to protest but he continues, “I love it.” It shuts you up real fast, and the blush that threatened to break out on your face earlier finally does. You try to hide it, but you know he’s seen it. He sees everything about you. Something in Dirk’s eyes softens and the grin shifts to a smile – yet another thing you haven’t been able to get used to. Seriously, when did he start smiling so much? You try to tell yourself it doesn’t suit him, but it really, _really_ does, and you find yourself trapped, drowning in it.

After a few more teasing exchanges, Dirk finally brings his motorcycle around the corner of your house where it’s sat for a while now, the occasional run back to his place to get stuff for himself being an exception to the rule. Your motivation for sending him off at the time lied in the fact that you genuinely thought you’d go crazy and do... _something_ you might regret if he occupied your space for even a second longer – and the only two alternatives were going out yourself (hell no), or trying to avoid him in your own home (impossible, can’t be done, also kinda rude) – but you were also concerned about him not having enough of, or maybe missing some of his own shit. Thus, the trips have yielded more anime and shitty video games only Dirk can seem to win, various engineering tools and parts, and more of his own clothing. Little things, but things, nonetheless. Your home has started feeling less and less like it only belongs to you and more like it also belongs to him. There’s a certain permanence to the feeling of seeing his stuff mixed amongst yours, although you aren’t quite sure why it feels that way or how you feel about it.

You smile a bit, thinking back to the first trip. In the beginning, it was hard to convince Dirk to go. He didn’t want to leave you at all and told you just alchemizing what he needed upon occasion was fine. But after showing him that you could handle taking care of yourself for an hour or two even if he didn’t force you to do so, you were able to successfully reassure him enough that he thought it’d be alright to leave, just for a bit. You took the brief time away from him to try and think, _really_ think for once, about how he has affected you. About if you truly believe he’s as overbearing as his presence and care may feel at times, if there’s some part of you that has begun hating him being around, if you’re tired of him, if you need or want to be alone.

But instead, as the time passed during his small absence, you just started feeling more and more empty. Nothing you tried to occupy yourself with worked, the answers to your questions would not reveal themselves, and the restlessness in your soul made you shaky and it was hard to contemplate being without him.

And then, a thought struck you like a ton of bricks.

If he didn’t come back... what would you do?

How the fuck would you _survive?_

The second Dirk opened the front door you were clinging to him shakily as though you were dying – not crying, but on the verge, whimpering. To calm you down, he had to hold you for so long with strained whispers. _I’m here_ and _it’s okay._ You have no idea how long it took, how much time passed until you felt like you were finally able to breathe again. Even more concerning, you also have no idea how or when you became so fucking dependent on him that the idea of him leaving you had lodged itself permanently right under the category of ‘things you never want to happen to you, ever.’ The next few times he left to get things were attempts at trying to decrease what he had been calling your “separation anxiety” – and they somewhat worked, if you told yourself he’d be coming back.

Blinking out of your dazed train of thought, you watch as Dirk fiddles with something on the side of the motorbike, and when he’s finally done, the both of you mount yourselves on it. And, just like that, you’re flying.

Or, at least, that’s what it feels like. Maybe it’s the wind in your hair, surrounding you completely, coupled with the sensation of moving so fast, though your feet never touch the ground. You haven’t felt anything like this in so long that it’s dizzying. With your eyes closed, one factor and one factor alone grounds you; Dirk. You’re holding tight to his waist, face pressed against his sturdy back. Where your hands meet the shirt underneath his jacket, warmth leaks through to your hands. More feelings you don’t want to process bubble up inside of you.

He hasn’t kissed you again, since that day on the couch.

You’ve been thinking about it often, meaning to ask about it. Wanting to more and more with each passing second. But seconds turn into hours, hours turn into days, days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months; this you know well. There are just... so many things about him that you don’t understand. That some part of you kind of _wants_ to understand them baffles you further.

With the looming existential dread and depression mostly suppressed and the day to day struggle of looking after yourself virtually gone, thoughts about Dirk and his motivations haven’t left you be. They’re basically all you have left, even despite you doing everything possible to unthink them, worried about where they’re taking you, worried what they mean. But you can’t stop them, and you just keep thinking...

Why did he do that? Does he actually “love” you? He doesn’t _really_ know you, right? Not the you that everyone else does, the one most people have gotten familiar with. Your first time _actually_ interacting, outside of that one awful in-game encounter, was when he broke in, if you really think about it. So, what made him say _that?_ What made him... care so much? And why has he gone so far for you? Why has he been watching you so closely, so fervently?

Why does he hold you so closely when you sleep?

Why were his lips so warm on yours?

Why weren’t you disgusted, like maybe you should have been?

Why hasn’t he even _said_ anything about it?

And why hasn’t he done it again?

...What would happen if he did it again?

Would you _like_ it?

_Would you... kiss him back?_

You want to know.

_You don’t._

Need to.

_Don’t._

But... he _hasn’t_ done it again. So, too scared and doubtful to take the risk yourself, you can only just keep wondering, the list of questions that you should have asked that day piling high inside of your head. A mountain of confusion and questioning, no answers to be found – which is equal parts frustrating and relieving. Because you’re realizing more and more that you don’t _really_ know him. The two of you never bring up the past if you can help it, and you rarely talk about what or how you’re feeling. Sometimes, it can be comforting – maybe because it’s nice that there’s no negative or positive history between the two of you. Dirk never knew past you. Past you, who wasn’t pathetic enough to let yourself go so fucking badly. Past you, who hadn’t fucked up yet. Past you, who hadn’t disappointed anyone yet. He doesn’t know and never asks. Because of this, you never feel like you _need_ to be okay, or at least need to _pretend_ to be okay – and you also never feel like you have to talk about it either. He’s there... regardless of what you do, he’s there. And that kind of presence is something you never even knew you needed before he showed up. You can just exist together in the present, no pretenses, no expectations, no needing to know anything. And it’s all okay.

You tighten your arms around his waist and watch the sunset through the trees that zoom past you as he drives.

What you have with him is good.

You don’t need more, even if some strange part of you is curious about it. Yearning for it, even. To know him. To understand him. To receive the same in return. But, even if that’s true, you haven’t said a word about his feelings. Neither has he brought them up again. At this point, you really have no idea if it was just a spur of the moment thing for him or if he really... _meant_ what he said.

 _“And, surely... you’ve_ gotta _know by now that you fall under the category of ‘people I actually love and care about.’”_

You screw your eyes closed and clench your teeth, frustration at yourself hot in your veins. The wall slams down, the thoughts are mentally beaten back, because you really, really shouldn’t be thinking about this right now. God, you’re _literally_ minutes away from Rose and Kanaya’s place, and yet you haven’t given a _single_ thought to what you’re going to say when you see everyone and have just been thinking about _him_. What’s more important, John? Clearly the former. Because, really, _what the hell are you supposed to say to them?_

You should... probably apologize. Right? Yeah, that’s a good thought. A start. Just... begin with saying hi, when you see them, and then immediately apologize. Or, maybe, throw the ‘hi’ completely out of the equation. They probably don’t want a ‘hi’ from you anymore, anyways, not after so long a silence. To be honest, actually, maybe you should just drop to your knees and start begging for forgiveness as soon as they open the door.

Sickness wells up and twists violently inside of you and your heart starts beating erratically. You can see the expressions already in your head, which swims.

The _disappointment._

The _hurt._

_Dave, Rose, Jade._

And, suddenly, every single apology you could possibly conjure up in your small mind doesn’t make sense, doesn’t do them justice, isn’t enough. Will _never_ be enough. Because you don’t know how to _begin_ to explain yourself. You don’t even know if it’s possible. If it makes sense to anyone who isn’t you, to anyone who isn’t inside your head, your skin. Hell, even when _you_ try to contemplate how you feel about _anything,_ anything at all, it’s like there’s this huge fucking impenetrable wall in your way. _Fuck._

You don’t know yourself. Stopped at 13 and haven’t since.

_How are you supposed to tell them that?_

How are you supposed to tell them that you feel like a goddamn stranger in your own scarred skin? How are you supposed to tell them that after the game ended you woke up every night for _months_ with nightmares so fucking realistic and vivid you’d sometimes choke on the bile rising in your throat and scream for hours on end, until you couldn’t anymore? Scratching and rubbing at your skin, trying to rid yourself of blood and grime that you had long since washed away, shaking like a leaf about to snap away from its stem in a storm. How are you supposed to tell them that for the first two years on Earth C when you tried so fucking hard to be normal that every shrug, every conversation, every fucking _smile,_ was a blatant ass _lie?_

The boy your friends knew is gone.

_So fucking gone._

You don’t know how to begin to tell them that he isn’t coming back.

You don’t want to. Never wanted to.

That’s why you disappeared to begin with.

_So, what the hell do you say?_

* * *

The Lalonde-Maryam place is big.

Homey.

You used to wonder why, since the caverns – which basically serve as their second home – are fucking humongous. You figured anyone else might want a change of pace going from work to home. Might think it feels too empty. Lonely. But looking at just the outside of it now, dark brick and large windows, you feel like it suits them. Dirk mentioned that they also house the wigglers that normally would have been culled on Alternia for being weak until they’re strong enough to be able to create lives of their own. That’s partially why the little reunion is being held at their place – Kanaya especially wasn’t entirely comfortable with the prospect of leaving the younger ones on their own for too long, and no one else had any qualms of their own that could compete. So, here you are.

Here you most definitely are.

Standing by while Dirk messes with the center stand on the motorbike and rakes a hand through his hair – which the wind really did a number on – you’re wringing your hands raw. He notices. Of course he does. He quirks a thick concerned eyebrow up at you.

_You good?_

But you just try to swallow the lump in your throat and your eyes flit away from his.

_I’m fine._

But you’re not. Not by a long shot. And he sees through you like you’re made of glass.

A hand on your wrist. Warm. Another in your mussed hair.

“Hey. Look at me,” he prompts softly, this time speaking aloud, and you do. Amber is all you can see and, “What’s up? Talk to me,” you blink slowly.

“... I’m going to fuck this up, just so you know. I don’t know what to say, I... I don’t know what to _say,_ Dirk. I’m the one who messaged everyone about meeting up and talking but, I...” you frown. _I’m scared. I don’t think I’m ready, but can’t turn back now. I don’t want them to hate me, but I’m afraid they already do._ You have no idea if any of this gets through to him by just looking at him. His eyes only reflect your own visage and the sky behind you, and you can never read him, can never see so easily through him like he can you. Yet another wall.

Fingers slide from your hair to your cheek, soft. It forces a shuddering breath from your lungs, relaxes you out of mere habit alone.

“John, you’re worrying about stupid things again,” he mutters, and you blink and huff frustratedly.

“No, no you- Dirk, you don’t fucking _get it,_ I-”

“I _do_ get it. I do. But what you’re worrying about won’t happen. Hey, no- John. Stop freaking out for a damn second and _look_ at me. All you need to do is just... be _here,_ right now. Don’t think about the past, the game, the way you shut yourself off. Don’t think about the future, there with them, after we walk in. Just _look_ at me, and _breathe._ Trust me,” he coaxes, and you try. You just look at him. You breathe. In and out, in and out, until you’re calm, and your hands stop shaking.

And you trust him. Because, so far, it’s worked.

The corners of his mouth twitch up, and his hands leave you, but not for long, because one joins itself with yours. Fingers threading through fingers, a perfect stitch.

You count the number of seconds it takes for the both of you to reach the big, double front doors, Rose and Kanaya’s gothic touch evident in its architecture.

23.

You count the number of seconds it takes for Dirk to reach up and give a few knocks, light and quick. You wonder if he knocked the same way before he smashed through your window. Had you been awake, would you have even heard him from your room, so far away from the front door to your house? 

3.

You count the number of seconds it takes for the door to swing open and for you to come face to face with the people you haven’t seen in a long, long time. The people you used to hold dearest to your heart. The same heart that stutters out a rapid-fire pulse in your ribcage, making you feel light-headed.

You stare.

They stare.

1.

They've been waiting.

Your mouth is dry.

Rose’s hair has gotten even shorter than it was when she cut it a few weeks into being on Earth C. You see a tattoo creeping along the side of her neck. The expression on her face is unreadable.

Dave’s hand is in Karkat’s, who stands behind him a just little ways, eyes flicking nervously back and forth between everyone’s faces. Dave’s mouth is a straight line. Shades nowhere to be found, just like Dirk. Eyes just as taciturn. You think you see his jaw clench and you shiver unconsciously.

Jade looks uncharacteristically un-well-rested. Her hair is messier than usual. Glasses gone. 

Callie and Roxy and Jake and Jane all stand together further away.

A clawed hand on a pale arm. Soft shared looks between emerald green and arctic blue.

The doorway is crowded. It’s silent. Too silent. You shift your weight onto your other foot and squeeze Dirk’s hand a little tighter, hoping it’ll give you the courage to speak, because you’ve decided, suddenly, that maybe the greeting idea isn’t so bad, after all, if it means that the tense air will dissipate and be replaced with something. Something _else,_ something _other._ Literally anything but nothing at all.

The words tumble out, small and anxious, from your dry throat, “... Uh, um, hi-” and then they are upon you all at once.

You have no idea who you’re hugging or who’s hugging you, because you’re literally _surrounded,_ and your vision is blurry from Dirk’s stupid shades that you forgot to take off and tears that you can’t stop, _won’t_ stop, because you’re just so, so very fucking _relieved._

Everyone’s talking, all at once, saying that they’ve _missed_ you, that they _love_ you, that they’re so happy to _see_ you, and if you thought you were flying earlier, you’re goddamn _soaring_ now. Before you even realize it you’ve all moved to the set-up in the backyard – the sun has set and it’s dark out, but someone has gotten a bonfire going (Jake, probably), and you’re all bundled up. You lean against Jade, who has you in her arms and hasn’t stopped hugging you since she started. Dirk is right next to you, hand still in yours, small smile playing on his mouth. His eyes stay on you, steadying, a warm presence. _I told you so,_ they say, and you almost roll yours. Rose and Kanaya sit above you on a cushioned outdoor bench, and both have their hands in your hair – Rose out of happiness to see you, in line with the maternal thing she’s picked up since she and Kanaya started working in the caverns, Kanaya out of exaggerated distress for the state it's in. Everyone else sits near you, and there’s a steady babble of chatter, of catching up. Your face hurts, and you belatedly realize that it’s because you’re smiling harder than you maybe ever have before.

Dirk was right.

No one, so far, has demanded an apology or an explanation. No one is asking for you to explain yourself. If anything, it seems more like everyone would actually rather focus on the present, on the positives. Which, you guess, some part of you respects. It’s much more comfortable than the alternative, after all. So, worries about having to rip the band-aid off of all of your psychological and emotional wounds diminished, you lose yourself in a tidal wave of social interaction.

“So, then Karkat looked up at me, blushing and all, and he was straight up like, ‘Dave, you beautiful dumbass, just fucking mack on me already! My poor little, uh, blood-pulser, blood-pumper, or whatever the fuck it is I forgot, can’t take it any longer!’ or something, and, I mean? Who am I to deny my godly, lust-inducing body to an adorably desperate troll who just can’t stop himself from begging for me? Nobody, that’s who, so I did, and – let me just say this, for the record – I am the best goddamn kisser around so he was _totally_ fuckin’ swooning-”

“Okay, _first_ of all, that is exactly how that _did not_ go, you wallowing egotistical shit pancake! You’re a total nooklicker and you can’t romance for shit so it was obviously actually _me_ who had to make all the damn macks and moves and pull the weight of our flush-crush-slowly-and-excruciatingly-turning-matespritship! Ask, like, literally anyone else here, John, I have no idea who in the absolute globe tickling fuck this idiot is trying to fool. _Secondly,_ it’s _blood-pusher_ you incomprehensible, blithering-”

“You guys talk sooo much oh my gosh, I did _not_ miss this! You do know that both of you were _equally_ dumb at trying to figure out your feelings for each other, right?” Jade pipes up, teasing grin on her face, and both Dave and Karkat fall uncharacteristically silent. Everyone has a laugh at their expense for a bit before a realization crosses your mind.

“Wait... you ‘didn’t miss this?’ Haven’t you guys... uh, kept in touch and stuff?” The room goes silent and the hands in your hair still and you wonder for a moment if maybe you stepped on a landmine.

“... Well, old chap, I’d say it’s less so that we haven’t all kept in touch here, but more like all of us have... er, just become more enamored with the perplexities of life, maybe! Not to be a douchemuffin about it for those who enjoyed it, but, but the game was a right bloody awful experience for most everyone, I think.” Jake pats a hand on your shoulder, and Jade nods.

“Yeah, pretty much everyone kinda went off to different kingdoms and we’ve all been trying to learn... how to live, I guess! Not to say we don’t still meet up sometimes, though, plus some people stayed together,” she says, looking pointedly, here, at Dave and Karkat, Rose and Kanaya, and Jake and Jane. Callie and Roxy smile at her, and she smiles back.

“I believe this is the first time we’ve really _all_ made it to a meet up,” Callie speaks softly, quietly, looking at you in a way that makes you instantly understand that they are putting emphasis on ‘all’ because of you. Maybe not in a negative way, but nonetheless, you feel a pang of guilt in your chest and look down to your lap. Dirk squeezes your hand, and you look over at him. He’s smiling – it’s small and subtle and you’re not sure it’s there for a second, but it’s a smile, regardless.

“Guess we have John to thank for that, then, don’t we? What with everyone trippin’ all over themselves to make it this time,” he says, and there’s a chorus of chuckles and nods – the chatter begins anew and the affection resumes.

Just like that, he clears the air.

Another hour or so passes. The nighttime air is crisp, fresh, and cold, and although getting too close to the fire would seem like a bad thing to most people, those with god tiers have no fear of dying from trying to get warm and therefore practically singe their eyebrows off. At one point, Roxy dares Dave to hurdle himself over the fire with a mocking “there’s no way you can do it without your flighty powers” kind of way – which of course, for him, means there’s no going back. So, despite Karkat’s fervent protests and pretty much everyone else calling him out for being a dumbass, he makes the attempt and catches his flannel overshirt on fire. Jane, on the lookout and prepared for something like this to happen, douses him in water from her cup – and when that only partially puts it out, Karkat yells, “FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK,” and rips the shirt off of him, stomping it into oblivion on the dirt. Dave makes a comment about indeed loving the fuck but asking Karkat to not strip him in public because he’s not into exhibitionism – Jake follows him up with a shitty pun about Karkat putting the fire of their love out. Overall, the general chaos and tomfoolery that you remember happening a lot before you dipped out on everyone ensues.

You’d be an idiot to claim that nothing has changed – that none of _them_ have changed. That’s not true at all. It’s evident in the scars that litter their bodies. The lines and darkness under certain eyes and along their faces. The occasional lapse of fun chatter and banter, where the silence seems more somber than comfortable and content. You start to understand what had been so hard to wrap your mind around before. That maybe no one was ever alright, like you thought. That maybe everyone was trying as hard as you were to act normal. Whatever that means for survivors, like yourselves.

“John,” Rose’s voice from above you breaks through your daze of thought, and you look up at her in acknowledgement as she continues, “I really am _so_ glad to have you back – I am, but,” here, your nerves kick back in a bit at the sternness in her eyes but then they glimmer, “you are absolutely going to pay for making it so that I had use some of my very valuable and scarce free time to teach a certain Strider how to make meals that don’t solely consist of either various raw seafoods or ready-alchemized goods.”

You give her a confused look.

“Huh?” you mutter, tilting your head and lifting an eyebrow. She looks thoroughly amused, eyes trained to your left, and when you follow her gaze you find Dirk, tense, looking very pointedly at the fire as though he isn’t being talked about.

“Rose, dearest, please, shut the fuck up,” he grates out, but doesn’t look at her, or you, or anyone.

“Haha, awww, Dirky I didn’t know you went _that_ far with your training! This is hilarious lol,” Roxy croons through their laughter. Most everyone else is giving him a strange look, somehow full of both amusement and endearment. He rigidly ignores them all, but deliberately looks at Roxy.

“Stop laughing. And talking – _especially_ talking,” his teeth are clenched, and he’s practically hissing at this point. It might just be you, but his face looks a little red. You’re still perplexed.

“What-” you start to ask, but you’re interrupted by his hand slipping out of yours. Abruptly, as though you’ve burned him. He’s standing, the whispers and giggles amongst the rest of the group the only sounds to be heard outside of the crackling of the fire.

“... Dave. I wanted to talk to you. About... your latest update on SBAHJ, the one after the hiatus. Shit’s wild and I’ve got a lot to say. And it’s too noisy here,” you squint a suspicious glare at Dirk, and you _know_ he can feel you looking at him, but he just ignores you, keeping his eyes trained on Dave’s.

Dave looks from Dirk to you and then back to Dirk, and something that you don’t understand seems to click for him, because he, too, is getting up from his comfortable-looking spot cuddling with Karkat, saying, “Yeah, sure bro, I gotchu. No fuckin’ worries at all. None. I know my last update was a whirlwind of pure, unadulterated quality entertainment – not to mention spicy as all goddamn fuck what with the officially sanctioned sexy Obama appearance n’ all, so...” His rambling slowly grows fainter as they walk off into the dark somewhere around the wooded area to... talk privately? Completely unnecessary, given the subject matter of their conversation, not to mention the _highly_ suspicious timing.

You look back up at Rose.

She looks happy with herself.

Not exactly always a good sign. Roxy sidles up to you, and they, Jade, Karkat, and Callie all sport sparkling eyes and look like they have a lot to say. You’re starting to get nervous. What the fuck is going on?

“What the fuck is going on?” Roxy rolls their eyes at your question.

“Lol, can’t believe you’re really asking that after how obvs DiStri was bein’ just now. But, boy oh boy, do we have looots to talk about! Liiike...” the expectation in their eyes bewilders you further.

“... Uh, _like?_ Like what?” If Roxy looks exasperated, Karkat looks like he’s about to blow a gasket.

“Motherfucking – are you being completely serious right now, John?”

You have never been more serious in your goddamn life, and you say as much.

“Can any one of you please speak in English? Preferably not in riddles?” Jane and Jake have a chuckle over the unintended last name pun, but you refuse to indulge and keep your eyes flitting around everyone’s faces, trying to find one that will give you answers. Jade is practically vibrating with excitement.

“Oh my god, he told you? He did, didn’t he? He said he would – and you guys were holding hands, after all! What did you say? Are you guys going out? Details, John, details!!!” She squeals, holding your hands tight in hers.

_What?_

The absolutely nonplussed look on your face speaks for you, and suddenly the excitement in the air is gone and replaced with bewilderment, confusion, and dread.

Callie is the first to speak again, apologetic, “I’m sorry, John, maybe we’re being a bit presumptuous but... we were all quite convinced that Dirk, well... um...” You hold up your hands, blinking a few times, a bit of realization dawning on you.

“No, no, hold on, I... well, uh, this is kinda weird to say out loud, but... he _has_ told me he loved me and? Kissed me? But I'm– going out? _‘Training’?_ I feel like there’s a lot going on that I don’t know about, here!” you’re flustered at the admission and feeling way out of your depth.

This is not the kind of explanation you were expecting to have to give tonight.

Karkat heaves a big sigh and lifts his palm to meet his face.

“That idiot...” he mutters.

“This is prolly somethin’ you should hear from Dirky himself... but you seem really confuzzled, so imma go ahead and give you a bit of the lowdown,” Roxy sighs out reluctantly, and after you nod in eager encouragement, they continue, “So, we maybe kinda sorta solicited his help to get you better?”

_Solicited..._

Just seeing the look on your face is enough to have everyone scrambling for the reset button on that revelation. Jane rests a hand on yours too quickly. An attempt to ground you, physically and mentally.

“It’s not like what you’re thinking it is, John. Just keep listening for now, alright?” She requests, so, you do. Because you’re too stunned to do anything else, anyways. Karkat looks up at the dark sky, arms resting on his knees, and starts speaking first.

“... No one had heard _anything_ from you for two whole years, shit for brains. _Of course_ we were all worried and trying to see what we could do. If we could somehow get you to reach out to us or at least respond to messages. Dave in particular was really scared for you,” here he grimaces a bit, “Anyways, the thing was that we were all battling our own demons, too, which, uh, let's just say some of us were better at than others. Additionally, you’re a stubborn motherfucker and _I_ for one pretty much figured it’d be fruitless to try and fucking coax you out of your shitty graveyard of a hive and back into being at least decently okay, because it already hadn’t been fucking working. At the time, Dave and Roxy took it upon themselves to go find Dirk, since for some godawful reason they thought it’d be a fan-fucking-tastic idea to get inarguably the _most_ emotionally fucked up of all of us to lend a hand – which I still don’t get, actually. Care to fucking explain?” he grunts and gestures to Roxy, who bites their lip and looks into the fire.

“... DiStri’s always been a pretty straight n’ narrow kinda dude, y’know? So, Davey thought maybe he’d have an easier time dealin’ with that stubborn side of yours than anyone else, since he's sorta similar. _I_ jus’ figured, like... Outside of me he’s probs the person you have the least relational ties with cause we dated for a bit and Janey and Jake are sorta, like? Your parents? Lol idk ectobiology be wildin’. I know from experience that he’s usually pretty good at keeping _himself_ out of trouble and taking care of, like... basic needs. Had to for pretty much all his life. Plus, he’s hella determined once he sets his mind to things, lol. We thought maybe if we could get him to go and, like, live with you and watch over you or somethin’ for a bit and keep you company, things might change. So, anyways, we went to find him cause he sorta also went off the grid ‘cept he still kept in touch sometimes and came out to see everyone occasionally.

He wasn’t doin’ too well when we visited either, honestly, so Davey an’ I were kinda rethinking the whole thing – but when we brought it up, he was actually, like, super into the idea. I think maybe he started off jus’ wanting somethin’, anythin’ to take his mind off of game and past shit. This is where the training comes into play, though, cause he started taking it, like, super seriously lol. Learned how to take care of people from Rose n’ Kan, while Janey n’ I had ‘what to do with an emotional wreck’ duty. Rose, Jade, and Dave got him up to speed on all things ‘you’ and uhh...” Karkat snorts, interrupting to take over again.

“He got the hugest flushcrush on you, dude. Or, as you humans say, he was 'whipped'. He was looking at pictures of you and Dave from the game and everyone could just fucking _tell_ that he was gone on you, or at least the idea of you, and it was honestly the goddamn funniest shit. When story time came around and we were all bonding over how much of a dipshit you were when you were younger, he wasn’t laughing or making fun of you or anything, just listening like his life depended on it. Again, fucking hilarious. Anyways, we all pestered and bothered him into saying that he was going to tell you, eventually, if things went well.”

They all look at you, expectant. Waiting for a reaction. For anything.

"... Oh," is all you give them, breathing shakily.

It’s a lot to take in, and you need more than a mere moment to process it.

The fact that you were wrong.

The fact that he actually _did_ know you, to some extent. Had heard of you, and, what? Fell in love with your past?

You ache.

So, all of the preparation and ‘training’, or whatever the fuck he did, every single thing he _did_ and, christ, what he _said_... was not really ever meant for _you_.

It was meant for who you used to be. And it was never because he actually cared about you, but because he needed... a distraction. Someone else’s fucked up problems to solve outside of his own.

He did say it, after all – that he was going to fix you.

_Fix you._

Your head starts hurting, so you stop. Stop thinking. Stop processing. You look away from the brightness of the eyes around you.

“... Oh, okay. I see,” you breathe out again, and force a chuckle this time, too. Someone starts to say something. You don't know who. You can’t hear it. Don’t know what it is, and don’t care.

Because you see _him._ Returning with Dave, calm in his eyes only for a second as they look right at yours, trying to check, trying to see, like they usually do. But you throw a wall up this time. Harden your features, grit your teeth, and make it so that your face is almost as impassive as his usually is.

Because maybe he never actually ever saw you, like you thought he did.

Maybe he only ever saw what he wanted to see.

Even now, you can see the gears turning in his head, searching. For what?

_For fucking what?_

You see his expectations clearly now, where before you thought they didn’t exist, _couldn't_ exist.

The air is thick, and no one is speaking. Dirk and Dave stall in their steps, close to the circle of yourself and your friends around the fire. You see him survey everyone’s faces.

And then he clenches his jaw in tandem with his fists.

“What did you tell him,” he seethes coolly – a demand, not a question, directed at no one in particular but also at everyone. You don’t wait around to see everything crash down around you like you can already feel it doing. Lungs constricted. Breathing in fire, exhaling ice. You rise to your feet, and everyone’s eyes are on you, but you’re only looking at him.

“It doesn’t matter,” you speak slowly, deliberately, “because it’s fine. I get it, now. _I understand you,”_ Something shifts in his eyes, but you ignore it. You look around at everyone and force a smile.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me, everyone. It’s been nice seeing you guys, but it’s about time for me to get home, now.”

Bewilderment.

Alarm.

Desperation.

_“John, no, don’t you fucking dare-”_

But it doesn’t matter. There’s a stinging in your heart, in your eyes, sickness in your gut, wind in your hair, rushing all around you, deafening you even to your own screams. And you ignore it all. Because you’re up in the air of your own volition for the first time since the end of the game, flying – _really_ _flying,_ this time.

And nothing matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings: anxiety, social apprehension, self-blame, mentions of ptsd - please let me know if I have missed anything!
> 
> Also, please god go and check out YET ANOTHER fucking [AMAZING piece of fanart](https://www.instagram.com/p/CFw5m1cg9tp/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet) by ectobaby on instagram!!! its so fucking beautiful im screaming!!!


	5. some things don't have to stay broken to be beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s all fine. You can deal with this. You’ve dealt with worse, after all. But the sinking feeling in your center, the hollowness gnawing at your consciousness... you shudder. 
> 
> You just need to be _fuckin’ honest with him about all this shit for once, man._
> 
> That isn’t hard, right? You grimace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end notes for chapter content warnings!
> 
> Last chapter! wooooooo! no song this time because im tired and also idk i just feel like this one doesn't need a song, as it's feelsy enough as it is.

Dave’s hand on your shoulder is the only thing stopping you from acting on the white, hot rage pulsing through your veins.

He’s gone.

He’s fucking _gone,_ just when you thought maybe things were getting better for him. For the _both_ of you, dammit. For the both of you. The _one_ time you leave John without thinking it through thoroughly enough and he vanishes before your eyes like fucking smoke before you can so much as blink them. The gust of wind he left behind is the only trace of his presence aside from the stiff atmosphere, and you rake trembling hands through your hair, heart beating ever faster, aching and twisting in a way that induces only panic inside of you.

God, _fuck!_

What the _hell_ are you supposed to do now?

Just recalling the coldness in his eyes as he said those words...

‘ _I understand you.’_

You shiver. You’ve never seen him like _that_ before, and that’s what scares you shitless. How _little_ you know about how he has been feeling. The lack of control over your own knowledge makes you feel helpless – something you can’t stand but have endured for his sake. You thought it’d be okay, just this once, to get only the minimum from him – the minimum of his feelings, his trauma, his internalized fears – and that maybe just being _there_ with him would make it all go away.

You were a damn fool.

“Dirk... I... we just told him what we thought _you_ had, we... _I_ had no idea he’d-” you cut Roxy off, coolly, wrenching yourself away from Dave’s hand and bristling close to their face.

“Well, maybe, you should have fucking _taken the goddamn hint_ and thought twice about opening your fucking mouth! His confusion at your unhelpful insinuations weren’t a fucking clue to you? Huh?” your voice is scathing in a way it hasn’t been in a long while – immature and you know it, but you can’t make yourself stop. Your lips curl into a snarl that shuts them up immediately. They look small, and some part of you feels horrible and screams at you, but you don’t care – can’t care. You’re too pissed, and you’re lashing out any way you can, and since it can’t be physical... Rose stands, folding her arms, looking at you squarely, with a glare.

“That’s _enough,_ Dirk. Enough. This is just a thought, but you could have stood to communicate with us better about what John did know and didn’t know. You need to calm down and accept the consequences and circumstances your actions have brought forth – as do we. This is a result of insensitivity and misunderstanding on all parties’ parts, so there is no need to be making such pointedly aggressive remarks.” It’s hard to breathe. You bite your lip. Your hands are shaking. You’re hearing her words but your mind, your whole fucking _being –_ neither wants to listen. It’s like you’re coming apart at the seams.

“Fuck. _Fuck!”_ you curse under your breath, unsure of what to do with yourself, making vaguely angered gestures at no one, and yet everyone. Trying to avoid their awful, unwanted pitying gazes and mostly failing. You kick the ground, though it’s done nothing wrong aside from existing, and you know that there are no excuses you can make. They will see through any of the bullshit you can think of to say. There’s no use in denying the plainly obvious, at this point – you’re so hopelessly fucking attached to John that to have him rip himself from your side is like losing a fucking _limb_. You screw your eyes closed and grit your teeth so hard it hurts, and the silence continues, tense, full of animosity and desperation, all of it sealed beneath your skin, and your skin alone, in the heart that thunders away inside of you. You want to let it out for the whole universe to hear. Scream it to everyone around you and to the shitty Earth C sky above you that will never be the same as the one you used to stare up at on your isolated tower in the middle of the ocean. Maybe you should. But you don’t – you just stay like that, with your eyes closed and your hands gripping your shirt over your chest so hard your knuckles are turning white. Dave’s hand finds its way to your shoulder again, and you flinch violently before you look up at him.

It’s the last straw. Seeing the look in his eyes. The conversation you just had echoing and mingling with the mental one.

_What are you waiting for?_

And just like that, you’re mumbling, rigid with tension, “I need to go. I need to fix this,” and stumbling all over yourself trying to act on the words – you ignore the calls of the others, the urges to _stop_ and _think_ and _calm down,_ because you know that’s not possible. For any other version of yourself, maybe. But not for the you here, right now. Not when you’re this close to losing him.

You use your god tier to fly after him, motorcycle be damned. You don’t need it, really. Never needed it. But you got it anyways, partly because some part of you was curious about and wanted to feel ‘normalcy’ of some sort, experience the clichés of typical suburban life you’ve heard so much about, and partly as part of an elaborate ironic joke you share with Dave over your carefully curated public image. Stupid, meaningless, now. 

The wind is strong, and it makes the skies even harder for you to navigate in the darkness. It’s as though you’re flying against the force of the strongest of typhoon gusts, and it doesn’t take much to understand why. The heir has unleashed the full force of his pent-up power upon his aspect’s associated element after years of nothing at all, and feeling its full effects sends a shiver down your spine. You’re in the wake of his emotions, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating in a way that you can barely manage to wrap your mind around.

You try not to let yourself go to the place it, by default, wants to go.

You try not to tell yourself, _I’ve failed._

Because, although you feel it in your bones that it’s possible that you’ve broken something that a replacement can’t ever be made for, something in you wants to do it anyway, wants to fight giving in, wants to grab John Egbert by his stupid fucking collar and spit sense at him until he understands, wants to open his mind and find the brokenness, the anxiety, the fear, the mistrust, wrench it out, and put the opposites in their places. Close him back up and see if he still works.

But you can’t do that.

You know that.

After all of those years of having to deal with the aftermath of your ignorant, youthful, panderings, you _know_ that.

But god damn it all if you don’t want to try.

You fly for what feels like forever until you finally, finally see the top of John’s house peeking above the dense thicket it’s situated in, and you exert more power to give yourself a burst of speed, practically vaulting yourself through the air to get there faster. Landing on his driveway is tricky at such a high velocity and you stumble to a sprint on the concrete and nearly trip over nothing on your way to the door, desperation clawing through every inch of you. You’re immediately on it, knocking, banging, calling his name, demanding he open the it, demanding he answer. When you get nothing but the reverberating echoes of your own voice and the thuds of your own fists, you pull your phone out, collapsing against the door and sliding down, your lungs working overtime to catch up with the lack of oxygen in your blood. You can hear it pulsing, rushing past your ears.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 21:56 --

TT: Egbert.

TT: Answer the fucking door.

TT: You can hear me, can’t you?

TT: I fucking know you’re in there. I _know_ you are. We need to talk, I

TT: There’s so much I need to tell you

TT: John, please

TT: don’t shut me out now

TT: I can’t

TT: _please_

With every passing minute you feel your resolve crumbling in your hands, slipping through your fingers with every ill-timed tremble.

“John...” your voice is hoarse, weak, and strange to your own ears. You’re losing it. You’re losing _him._ You can feel it, and it scares you, because god, when did this become so much more than you thought it was? Last you checked, your feelings were under control. Manageable. But god, now? You have never felt something so deeply, so fervently as now. It’s blinding, and you hate it, but you can’t make it go away the way you desperately want it to, _need_ it to, so that you can focus on what you’re trying to accomplish. But... what even is it that you are trying to accomplish, anymore?

Dave’s words from earlier come back to you here, and recalling the quirk of his eyebrow when he casually opened the can of worms you’d been wrestling with for a while makes you furrow both of yours.

_When you get far away enough from the commotion around the fire and it feels like it’s just you and Dave, you can physically feel yourself relax, and it’s visible. He places a hand on your shoulder. A gesture every good bro has stored away for usage on special occasions, specifically ones where a bro-on-bro comforting session is in order. Maybe that wasn’t the best way to phrase that in your mind. Ugh, you know what you mean._

_“Okay, so, while I know that the SBAHJ update is literally the best thing to have happened to human and alienkind alike and everyone should honestly be on their knees weeping n’ thanking me for it n’ shit, obviously I can tell that that ain’t the core reason you made eyes at me to walk you out here. Not to be like, a total fuckin’ insufferable prick, but what the fuck just happened back there, bro, because I gotta say, I’m pretty fuckin’ lost? Thought you told me he knew,” Dave rambles, and your eyes meet his._

_Crimson. Bare, without the shades. Just like yours, you have to remind yourself. You’re not used to it and you’re not sure if you’ll_ ever _get used to it. When the two of you first had the conversation about doing away with them – as part of saying goodbye to your respective shitty pasts with the game – you tried your best not to think about what they really meant to you. You wanted to pretend that they were and always had been just meaningless, tinted plastic, connected to arms of wire. But since then, you have been forced to acknowledge the fact that they were really always a protective barrier for your younger self. The shades offered you calm and collectiveness where you felt like a panicked mess and confidence where you felt like the biggest fuck-up of all time. To get rid of them was like getting rid of a whole fucking aspect of your personality. Like stripping away curtains from a wall to reveal nothing but drywall where both you and everyone else thought there should have been a window. With just a glance you can tell he’s contemplating something similar. You’re both on the same wavelength. The Strider wavelength. You sigh tiredly, run your hands through your hair._

_“... I did tell him,” and Dave squints at you._

_“Okay? So... what fucking gives, then, dude?”_

_You huff, “It’s just not as simple as you’re thinking. He’s... there’s more to him than what you guys told me, y’know. More to him than anyone probably_ ever _knew. He’s changed a hell of a lot – or maybe it’s more like he’s stopped fronting, or something,” you say, and while this is true, Dave looks unconvinced. You cross your arms and look up at the sky. “... Also, I may or may not have sprung my feelings and put the mack on him in the middle of a particularly intense and emotionally grievous moment like you all told me not to do-”_

_“Goddamn it, Dirk-”_

_“-so, I don’t think it’ll be too hard for you or anyone else to imagine my hesitation in bringing it up again, so as not to potentially scare him off for fuckin’ good on the prospect – that’s assuming I haven’t already. Besides... he hasn’t really said anything, either, so I’m taking that as a solid, ‘nah, bro, but for the sake of keeping things chill I’m just gonna act like I always have and not make things extraordinarily awkward between the both of us.’ Small mercies, I guess.” Dave looks at you incredulously for a good few seconds before sighing deeply and pushing the palm of his hand to his face. Playing the mature one for once, which is ironic, to you._

_“... You being a dumbass aside, did you not even, like, I dunno, pay attention to how he responded? Did he pull a typical Egbert? Get all grossed out by the gay, proclaim his frankly dubious heterosexuality loud enough for all our homies in the furthest ring to hear? Or what?” This gives you a pause._

_Come to think of it... the look on his face at the time. Lips pink, glistening, slightly swollen from the roughness on your part – a stark contrast to the piercing blue of his eyes, wide with shock behind frames askew. Not an expression of disgust. Not revulsion, exactly, either. Trusting your own judgment when it comes to these things is risky, though, given where it got your last relationship, especially considering your classpect’s tendency to skew your perspective on things for the worse._

_“... No ‘typical’ Egbert bullshit. Just… I don’t know, man. He looked really flustered and shocked, but he also didn’t really say anything. Not that he_ needed _to say anything. You know what I mean.”_

 _Dave’s eyes are wide, intense on yours, and it’s sorta uncomfortable. He grabs you by your shoulders, somewhat startling you, and speaks exasperatedly, “What? No, no, hold on... so, he didn’t, like. Freak out on you? He didn’t run away from you, just looked…_ embarrassed? _Just to clarify, here, we are talking about the same John, right?” You clear your throat and nod, starting to see where this is going._

_“Obviously. And, well... sorta, on the freak out deal. I mean, he did kind of push me away after a little, but that might be because I, uh,” you feel your face get warm, and you lower your voice, averting your eyes, cursing yourself for being embarrassed, “Well, I got... kinda rough... for a second. So, can’t really blame hi-”_

_“DIRK. HE KISSED YOU BACK?_ _JOHN 'I'M NOT A HOMOSEXUAL' EGBERT_ _KISSED YOU BACK???_ _” Eyes wide, you slap a hand over Dave’s mouth before he can say any more and scowl at him._

_“Dude, what the fuck?” but Dave’s bulging eyes demand an answer, and when you let go of him – carefully, to ensure he doesn’t start yelling shit for all of Earth C to hear again – you give him an answer, “Okay, so, maybe he sort of did, but I don’t know if it was completely reciprocal. For all I know, it was probably just the heat of the moment because, as I’ve previously stated, things were already pretty intense. He was in a very vulnerable and raw state.” It’s Dave’s turn to scowl at you._

_“Dude, come on. Regardless of if he just got swept up in some bullshit moment, you_ know _he would have said some shit afterwards if he really hated it, if it made him uncomfortable and made him feel like you took advantage of the situation, if he didn’t want to draw the line as clearly as fucking possible. Egbert’s just not the kinda dude to let that shit go without saying his piece. I know that from_ actual _experience. Karkat, too.” You clench your jaw._

 _“... Even if that’s true – and let’s assume, for a moment, it is. What the hell am I supposed to do about it_ now? _It’s been quite a while since then, bro. I don’t know about you, but I feel like maybe that means the moment has well fucking passed. It lived life courageously as all hell, according to most people who knew it, and is on its way to Valhalla as we fuckin’ speak. RIP buddy.”_

 _Dave sighs, “I don’t know. Haven’t you thought about, I dunno... just being fuckin’_ honest _with him about all this shit for once, man?”_

Have you?

Honesty and communication were never a part of your initial intervention goals. You were never sure he’d even accept your presence there with him in the first place. In fact, you anticipated more or less for John to be wary of you from the beginning until the end and, furthermore, you expected to be perfectly fine with it.

You spare a single, mirthless chuckle at that thought.

Just look at you now.

... Thinking of the initial intervention, however, is giving you an idea.

Why the hell would you go for the most obvious entryway first when you’ve had such _good_ experiences using the other one? For shame, Strider.

You pick yourself up with renewed resolve and fly around to the side of John’s house and onto the balcony, and you waste no time trying to survey the inside before using the full force of your body to shatter the glass. Your elbow and hand take most of the initial damage from the breakage, which isn’t much aside from a few cuts – nothing someone who’s died a couple times of his own volition can’t handle. You carefully but swiftly maneuver your way around the shards that jut out around the frame of the window, and you’re in.

The first thing that you notice is the lack of John’s presence in his room – which is where you expected him to be, given past experience. This immediately throws you off, makes your heart stall its pounding beats in your chest, because _what if he isn’t here?_ What if he decided not to go home, changed his course last minute – left Earth C on impulse, even? You force yourself to ignore the urge to entertain this train of thought, and just focus on _searching._ You can cross that bridge when you come to it after you’ve exhausted the option in front of you, the option that makes the most sense if you’re not completely and entirely wrong about knowing even a little about him.

In your desperation, you look _literally_ everywhere. Under his desk, under the bed, in the closet, for christ’s sake. Your search spares absolutely no shadow, no corner – you don’t leave a room until it’s been completely checked up and down twice over. It’s not until you’ve finished searching the kitchen that you’re starting to _really_ panic, thinking maybe your intuition had been right, after all, about John just fucking deciding to take off – and then you remember that there’s a room that you skipped over. A room you overlooked, out of sheer habit.

John’s dad’s room.

There was never a point during your stay with him that he'd ever explicitly mentioned the fact that the door was not allowed to be opened. You’d always just somehow known, somehow figured, because he’d never opened it and you’d never opened it – all in addition to the fact that John hadn’t spoken a word to you about his father the very few times he let the light shine through the cracks on his past and his feelings.

Without recalling the trek back upstairs, you find yourself staring at the door to the room, thinking: maybe it’s a long shot.

Maybe you’re wrong, maybe you’re crossing some sort of line you shouldn’t even begin to approach.

But then you’re thinking about _him._ About his shitty taste in movies. About how he tolerates your prying presence, your interests, your everything. About his smile, about your arms around him, his around you, about how it feels so goddamn _natural_ to be with him and about how you’ve never had anything like that before. About how he let you stay, despite the fact that he could have just as easily called down every goddamn force imaginable to get you to stay the _fuck_ out of his very small, very unstable life.

You think about these things, and your hand is suddenly on the handle, hesitant, but turning, nonetheless. And then, when the door creaks and swings open without much effort on your part, you see _him_ – messy head of dark hair tucked away into scarred, shaking arms set atop fragile knees – and every doubt you had about entering the room melts away. You open your mouth to speak, but don’t say anything. It feels as though it’d be stupid, and you have no way of knowing how to approach this, how to approach _him –_ but you know you should try, clumsy as the attempt might be. So, you begin walking towards him and you clear your throat, hoping that it won’t startle him, per se, but still let him know that you’re present. The thing is that he doesn’t stir, and it gives you a pause. You frown.

That’s... off.

But, so is this whole damn situation. So, instead of turning on your heels, you press onwards towards confrontation until you’re close to him. Close enough to _touch_ him, your mind is screaming, and then it goes blank and you do _._ You press your shaking fingers lightly into his shoulder as though it’s the first time you’ve ever done it, hand stilling along the place of contact. You suppress a shudder, suppress the urge you have to kneel on the ground next to him and wrap him up and run your fingers through his hair and down his back like every part of you is _aching_ to do. He finally looks up at you, but it’s not what you want to see – his eyes are glazed over, almost lifeless.

“... John?” you grimace as his name tumbles gracelessly from your mouth, your voice sounding uneven to your own ears – but that seems to do the trick. Recognition reflects back to you from his eyes, and then, just as quickly, anger.

“You... what the fuck are _you_ doing here?” despite the obvious intended venom, the threatening tone John is going for falls completely flat when his voice cracks and hurt passes over his expression. You say nothing in response to his question, but you _do_ attempt to bring your other hand up to touch his face, to try to comfort. As soon as he realizes what you’re trying to do he’s slapping your hand away with one hand and throwing a punch with another – which, luckily, you’re able to easily and swiftly dodge. He tries this tactic a few more times, cursing under his breath after only a moment of effort, as he is no stranger to being unable to use physical force to get you to leave him alone. Dropping his hands to his sides, he chooses instead to try and put some distance between the two of you by pushing himself away.

“Go away, Dirk! I don’t wanna see you right now – a fact which I feel is, like, pretty fucking glaringly obvious!” he raises his voice, and something in your chest feels unbearably heavy. The look in his eyes like ice, the words he speaks not empty. You have to force your hand, which is still slightly reaching out towards him, back down to your side in a clenched fist. You take a deep breath from your nose and try to remember what exactly Roxy told you to say during a moment like this, not so distantly in the past.

But you can’t seem to remember anything at all, so you settle for, “... Haven’t I told you? I’m not leaving you. Not even now, when you want me to.” And, although he still glares scathing daggers at you, he doesn’t offer anything further by way of protest, so you assume your fumble works.

You brace your back against the wall next to him and, although there’s already a considerable amount of space between the two of you, he shuffles even further away when you slide to sit down. The aching twinge in your chest that hasn’t gone away since the second he first looked up at you grows. It is becoming increasingly harder to ignore.

To be frank, you’re a nervous fucking train wreck just beneath the surface; you’re terrified, _truly terrified,_ of opening your mouth, for once. Which is goddamn _saying_ something. You don’t want to fuck things up even more than you probably already have, given your track record of doing so... but you’re so fucking scared that you already have done so beyond repair and your mind is working overtime to analyze the implications of what that could mean for you.

For the _both_ of you.

The silence is deafening, numbing, and as it stretches, you become more and more uncomfortable. Finally, when you can’t take it any longer, you run your trembling fingers through your hair and sigh. John isn’t looking at you – in fact, he’s almost completely turned himself away from you – but it’s fine. It’s all fine. You can deal with this. You’ve dealt with worse, after all. But the sinking feeling in your center, the hollowness gnawing at your consciousness... you shudder. 

You just need to be _fuckin’ honest with him about all this shit for once, man._

That isn’t hard, right? You grimace.

Inhale, exhale.

Then begin, “... First things first. I know you don’t want me here. Or, at the very least, you don’t _think_ you do. That’s fine. Fair, even. But I think there are some things you’ve... misunderstood about me and the way I feel about you. So, I’m going to just sit here with you and talk for a while. I’m gonna say a lot of things – most of which you’re probably not gonna want to hear, but since it already seems like I’m not in your good graces, it probably won’t make much of a difference if I say them, anyways. If... if by the time I finish talking you still don’t want me here...” you trail off, voice slowing, reluctant, hesitant – but you clear your throat decidedly and grate out words you’re not sure you’ll be able to act on, “I’ll... leave you alone. Like you want. For good.” You glance over at him.

“...” No response, and he’s still not looking at you. _Maybe it’s for the best, anyways,_ you think, absentmindedly hooking your fingers around one another in front of you. Furrowing your brows and concentrating your harsh gaze on your fidgeting, you slowly begin your soliloquy.

“... I’m sure you’ve probably heard a little about it by now but, well, during my timeline I was almost completely alone for pretty much my whole conscious and unconscious life. Outside of the bots and gulls it was just me, myself, and a hunk of concrete and metal stranded in the middle of a vast ocean for a very, very long time. I’d only had the chance to meet Jake, Jane, and Roxy in person through the game when I was 15 and, if you haven’t noticed by now, each one of us is some special kind of fucked up – and not even just because of sburb – so, I don’t know that I would really count my experiences with them as positive contributions to the cultivation of my godawful social skills. Basically, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m not the greatest at trying to understand anything involving anyone outside of myself and my own shit. So, playing the game was never... a _question._ Not for someone like me. It was something I likened to destiny, at the time, and it promised to perform as a bridge that would close the physical gap between myself and my friends. _Finally,_ I kept telling myself, _finally, things will change._ I _will change... I will become who I was always meant to be. I will fulfill my role in this universe.”_ You go silent here, emotion getting the best of you, making your throat close up. Clenching your fists and screwing your eyes shut, you block out even the very little light streaking through the room from the window and talk yourself through it.

“I didn’t,” you say quietly, “instead of satisfying fulfillment came a null void of emptiness and failure – and still, I searched for it. In fact, I searched for it up until I met you – really, _physically_ met you, the night I broke in. When Roxy and Dave came to find me and told me they wanted me to help you, I was goddamn _desperate_ for purpose, for something I was doing to make sense, to matter, to have some kind of fucking _value,_ for once _._ It’s all I’ve ever wanted, you know? So, I jumped on it, because it seemed as good a purpose as any and I thought hey, maybe, this time, I could _actually_ help, since I’ve been where you are. Being alone is all I’ve ever really known, and even when I finally got to meet my session mates and friends, I didn’t... crave interaction with them the way I thought I would. I was desperate for it, but _because_ I didn’t feel that way, and so some part of me was in this perpetual state of distrust of everyone around me. Thinking _I know best because, hell, I’m still fucking alive after everything I went through, so I must have been doing_ something _right,_ and then just doing whatever the hell I wanted, no checks and balances in place, with the bullshit leader front that everyone, including myself, was convinced was genuine. After ultimately leading to the almost-destruction of all of my friendships I was so fucking miserable with guilt and self-deprecation that I started giving in completely to my negative desires.

I, too, almost succeeded at actually offing myself multiple times here on Earth C – and when I wasn’t doing that, I was isolating myself,” you grimace and pause at this thought, at the memories it conjures, “so, I thought maybe I could take my narcissism and do something fucking decent with it, for once.” As you conclude this thought, you catch movement in your periphery, and when you glance over, John has finally, finally turned. He’s facing the opposite wall straight-on, not looking at you, but at the space on the floor next to where you’re sitting, head settled on his arms.

_He’s listening._

This sparks something inside of you, and you shift, reaching for him. He flinches, pretty blue eyes wide and startled, but when your fingers graze his cheek and you’re shifting closer to him, he doesn’t move away.

“... When I was holding you and you were breaking down, that first night, so fucking vulnerable in my arms... I realized something. I was able to see outside of myself, John, _think_ outside of myself. It wasn’t about me, anymore. It wasn’t about my sense of personal fulfillment. I mean, hell, even when I started learning shit about you, all I could think the whole time was that it seemed so insanely impossible that you went through everything you did and only got like this _after_ it was all over, when every single last one of the rest of us fucked over to the wrong side of the coping road countless times when it actually counted, during the game. To see it all _concentrated_ in you like that... all I could think – all that I can _still_ think is about just how fucking _strong_ you are. I can’t imagine even coming close to being that strong.”

You’re watching the emotion well up on his face as you speak, and you don’t take your eyes off of him until finally he whimpers, and then you feel as though you’re finally allowed to bring him close to you, like you’ve wanted desperately to. So, you do. And he lets you. Inside of you, something relaxes, lets go.

“... You are really stupid.”

He’s warm.

“Yeah.”

“... And you’re an asshole for not talking about all this with me until now.”

You run your fingers through his hair and pull him closer, closing your eyes.

“Yeah.”

“But... so am I. I... I never asked you anything! There were – _are_ so many things I have been wanting to talk about, but some part of me didn’t want to. Maybe because I just knew I would have to talk about a lot of stuff that, before now, I have been trying really hard not to. You do that to me. You make it so that I have to... confront myself. And I didn’t want to. I _still_ don’t,” he pulls away from you slightly, and after a jolt of panic you realize it’s just so he can look at you. The tormented expression on his face makes you frown, “I guess, because I don’t see how it helps anything to admit that the game really fucked me up and talk about my depression, because it feels so stupid to have to acknowledge that after everything. Like, ‘oh, wow, look who finally showed up! John’s late to the traumatic experience party!’ I can’t say I know why it hit me all at once, but it made and still makes me feel really dumb and pathetic. So, to be honest, I _liked_ that I didn’t have to face any of it, or answer to my past self while being with you. I mean, you hung out with me without asking me any questions or expecting anything from me! And although obviously I knew it was to help me get out of this hole I dug for myself, it didn’t really feel like that.” You nod.

“That’s because it wasn’t.” John looks at you blankly for a second.

“... Huh?” You look away sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck.

“I mean, so, yes, it was initially an intervention. But, to me, it stopped feeling that way right away. It can’t exactly be an intervention if you’re not putting up a fight, really – and you didn’t. You went along with everything I said and did, for the most part, which worked for me because... as I’ve stated several times before, I’m fucked up. Being in control, being able to decide things myself has always come naturally to me and, gone unchecked, the desire wreaked havoc on my friends’ lives. I’m better about it now because I’ve learned my lesson, I guess, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still take over sometimes, doesn’t still make me feel good and comfortable to be the one pulling the strings, per se. Naturally, because you _let_ me have that, even if partly unknowingly, our interactions on my part became less fueled by a desire to fix and was replaced by a desire to just _be_ with you. Which is... a new thing for me.” You’re still unable to meet his eyes. Being honest means being more vulnerable than you’re used to, and it’s messing with your insecurities, making you wonder if each time you open your mouth the words you say will drive him away again. John ducks his head in order to make eye contact with you, and it surprises you. The piercing blue of his curious gaze makes you freeze.

“So, then, you really _did_ mean it?” You quirk a brow.

“Mean what?” John pouts a little, pursing his lips and furrowing his eyebrows as though he wishes he didn’t have to explain.

“That you, uh... love me? You kissed me before, right after you said it, but then you never talked about it or did it again. And now, you’re saying that you just wanted to be with me the whole time. So, that means it wasn’t just... a momentary thing?” Although the sentence is phrased like an observation, it comes out as a question, and something about that makes your heart beat a little faster. You blink, your mind racing to keep up with the implications of this information.

Has John been thinking about your shared kiss this whole time while you were trying desperately to skirt around it?

Has he been thinking about _you_ this whole time? Not feeling awkward or resentful for what you did, like you were terrified to think... but instead...

“And if... if it wasn’t, and I did mean it... would that bother you?” you ask. John makes eye contact with you, and your heart stutters in your chest. He blinks away and seems to give it serious thought for a moment.

“I... I don’t _think_ so. But that’s a little weird, right? I mean, maybe not for you, because you _like_ guys, but... for me...” he mutters, and you sigh.

“I can’t believe this actually needs to be said, but you know there’s nothing wrong with you, yourself liking guys, right? Or even just one guy? Scandalous information, I know.” John frowns and gives your arm a small punch.

“I know that! I do, just... it’s weird to me. And I’m not sure, ok? I’ve never really... done anything like this before.” You snort at his phrasing.

“What is this, a shitty amateur porno?” John pouts, his bottom lip jutting out slightly, and it’s adorable, and you immediately do the opposite of regretting that statement.

“Diiirk. I’m being _serious,_ here!” he whines, and man, is that making you feel things. You force yourself to swallow the urge to further explore whatever those things are and sigh, lifting your hand to cup his cheek.

“Need some help trying to figure it out, then?” you ask, and his eyes widen. Pretty.

“Uh... I... You don’t mind? Even if I end up not really...” he trails off, struggling with words, and you just shake your head and shrug.

“I really, really, _really_ wouldn’t mind. At all. In fact, I think it’d be more accurate to say that I’m _all_ _for_ helping you – and not even because I feel like being a good samaritan today. I’d honestly love nothing more - and even _that_ might be a fucking understate-” John’s hands swiftly cover your mouth – his face has turned a nice shade of red over the course of your rambling, signaling his mortification – and it’d be a lie for you to say that you’re not thoroughly enjoying yourself.

“I think I get the picture!” he stammers out, and you grin beneath his fingers and give him a look that clearly says:

_Then why aren’t you doing anything?_

And then, in the next moment, his hands are replaced with his mouth, your eyes flutter closed, and you’re sighing with relief into it – into him. _Finally, finally, finally,_ chants your heart through your mind, despite your attempts at stifling the enthusiasm, because it’s somewhat humiliating for you to admit that this is all you’ve ever wanted and more.

The kiss is a little stiff at first – John’s nervous and you’re trying hard not to take the reins on this so as to let him feel things out himself and explore at his own pace – and it starts off innocent enough. Just lips, soft, brushing against each other, moving upon occasion as they please, until John experimentally places a hand behind your neck and fiddles with the short hair he finds there. Goosebumps raise along your skin when then that hand slides up further into it, and you have to suppress a noise rising in the back of your throat. You’re trying to keep your own hands to yourself as much as possible, although you’d really like to do the opposite, but you allow your hand to linger where it is, palm against his lower cheek, fingers lightly tracing along his ear and jawline.

And then, tentatively, he’s licking your lips, and your resolve instantaneously vanishes into thin air. Self control? Gone. Impulse check? Abandoned ship. You open your mouth, your tongues meet, and you wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him ever closer. It must be a bit too sudden for him, though, because he’s letting out a short groan into your mouth that causes further damage to your already short-circuiting brain, and that is definitely the _only_ reason you decide to close the gap fully, chest flush against his, fingers sliding from his cheek up and into his hair. You guess it’s okay, though, because in the next instant John's arm loops around your neck and he’s licking hotly into the inside of your mouth, up towards the roof of it, and you’re trying not to let yourself perform a full-body shudder at the sensation.

The longer this endures, the more settled you and John become, until eventually the passion starts to ebb in favor of just sharing slow, languorous kisses. When you pull away for a second after a particularly long one, something in the air stills, and a hair’s breadth away from each other, the both of you pause. Your eyes slowly open, half-lidded, and they find John’s in a similar state. His hair is a mess (so is yours), and his face is flushed, and you can’t help the way your lips quirk upward at the sight.

“How was that for experimentation?” you whisper, voice low, and he looks at you dazedly for a moment longer before pressing his forehead to yours, eyes sliding closed.

“Um... not bad, I guess,” he’s saying, going for nonchalant, but the shakiness to his voice gives him away.

“Same here.”

Like many, many instances before this one, the air between the two of you falls comfortably silent. John eventually moves so that both of his arms are around your neck, head nestled in the nook his arm has created, and you’re scratching lightly up and down his arms, sides, and back, like you always do. You stay like this for a while.

“... John,” you murmur after a bit, and he gives you a small noise of acknowledgement, so you continue, “do... do you still want me to leave?” you ask hesitantly. You’ve talked things out with him, sure, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he has to forgive your miscommunication and ulterior motives or that he might not still want some space. You don’t want to be an asshole and assume things are just fuckin’ peachy, now. Besides, if he would, in fact, still like to think things over, it’s not like you’re going anywhere any time soon.

You’re immortal, for christ’s sake.

When John looks up at you, there’s genuine panic in his eyes, “Why would you leave?” he asks, like it’s the stupidest thing you’ve said all night, and you quirk an eyebrow.

“You told me earlier that you wanted me to go away and that you didn’t want to see me, dude. I just... wanna make sure we’re good, at the very least. If there’s anything else you’re taking issue with, we can talk it out – or I can let you be if you need time away from me. I know I can be... overbearing. And I don’t want to force you into anything – that’s the last thing I’d ever want to do,” you frown and thumb his cheek, on the space just under his eye, and the look on his face shifts to understanding.

“Oh, um... well, I was only upset because of the lack of communication, mainly – plus, it got kinda weird to hear everyone tell me you had a thing for me before you even met me, and it got me thinking that maybe you didn’t... understand me. Or something. You’ve basically debunked that theory of mine now, regardless. And...” John trails off, looking for a second like he’s not sure whether or not he should say what comes next, “I don’t want to, um... I don’t want to be away from you. Not now,” and it’s so quiet you’d think you were hallucinating if you weren’t watching his lips move.

You kiss him, short but communicative.

“And you’re okay with shit like this?” you mutter, serious, as it ends. His only response, initially, is to stare at you, open-mouthed, chest rising with a perpetual inhale, as though he’s forgotten how to breathe. Ironic.

“Oh. Oh, uh, yeah. I’m... okay. For sure, yep,” John falters, and you grin teasingly.

“Eloquently put,” he squints his eyes at your provocation.

“You caught me off guard, okay!”

“I was just _complimenting_ you; I don’t know what you’re getting all riled up about.”

“Dirk!” he whines.

“John.”

“Stop harassing me!”

You smirk, “I’ll think about it.”

“Ugh!” But as soon as his griping ends, he’s smiling, and so are you.

You talk for a while, after that, taking turns asking questions and giving answers, trying to discover little things about each other as though they truly matter in the grand scheme of things. And maybe they do. It’s the little details that truly make up who you are, anyways – the cells, atoms, electrons, neutrons, and protons of your respective lives and personalities.

At some ungodly hour in the morning, after reassuring worried friends that everything has turned out alright and that you'll all be seeing more of each other soon, the two of you decide that you’ve had enough of John’s late father’s room, and the door gets closed with an air of permanence again on your way out and over to John’s room. When you get there, John notices the glass on the ground where the window is and turns to you with a glare.

“... What?” you ask casually.

“Dirk.”

“John.”

“My _window.”_

“Your window.”

“You broke in _again?”_

“I knocked first. Like, a lot. Maybe you should get a doorbell or something, dude.”

“You’re so full of shit!”

“It’s a family trait. Don’t blame me for my chemical makeup, dude, that’s kinda discriminatory.” John’s stern expression cracks here, and he huffs a laugh out.

“Oh man, that was dumb. Anyways, we should probably clean this up, huh?” He says, gesturing to the mess, and you nod in agreement, observing.

The sun begins to rise outside, and it paints the Heir’s figure in bright light, smiling on him. When he looks back at you, he’s beaming. It’s the first time you’ve seen that particular expression on him, and it leaves you struggling to breathe. It is the most beautiful thing you could possibly imagine, and you want to make sure it never, ever leaves his face.

“Yeah. Let’s fix it together, okay?” You ask, eyes meeting his. His eyebrows raise at your question for a split second, and you wonder absentmindedly if he understands what you mean, before the look on his face softens.

He reaches over to take your hand in his, fingers curling into yours, soft and warm.

“Alright!” he says.

And you, the Prince, have never felt lighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings: mentions of attempted suicide, panicking, breaking and entering, the boys get a little steamy w/ the kissing at one point - please let me know if you believe I have missed anything!
> 
> Hoo boy, okay... first of all, a serious shoutout to my dirkjohn server friends who gave me some heavy and much needed encouragement and support during the writing of this last chapter (theo, krys, and jackie.... eyeballs!!!) it's been a wild ride but i have actually finished something for once that and that makes me super happy!!
> 
> as i've said before, i wanna do a nsfw partner work for this one because there are still some aspects of the fic that i've said for exploration in that one. might be a second until it gets posted, but i'll definitely try to work on it. anyways, thank you to everyone who has read and kept up with this work so far! your support means the world to me! :)


End file.
